/.  C/rv     \ 

*/r>/      /     % 
"'  cflanaers  t 


UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 

SAN  OIEGO 


</ 


John  McCrae 


Hn  jflanfcecs  Jfielfcs 

Hnt>  <§>tber  poems 


Hn  I&eea    in  Character 


Sir  HnDcew  flDacpbail 


fltlustrateo 


O.  p.  Putnam's  Sons 
View  Jjorh  and  Xondon 
linfcfterbocfter  press 

1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 

BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Ube  Knickerbocker  press,  View  Borfc 


Facsimile  of  an  autograph  copy  of  the  poem  "In  Flanders  Fields" 
This  was  probably  written  from  memory  as  "grow"  is  used  in  place  of  "blow"  in  the  first  line 


•Hote  of 

Acknowledgment  and  thanks  are  due  to  the 
following  for  permission  to  use  poems:  Toronto 
Varsity;  Canadian  Magazine;  Massey's  Magazine; 
Westminster;  Toronto  Globe;  The  University 
Magazine;  Punch;  and  The  Spectator. 

The  reproduction  of  the  autograph  poem  is 
from  a  copy  belonging  to  Carleton  Noyes,  Esq., 
of  Cambridge,  Mass.,  who  kindly  permitted  its 
use. 


Contents 


PAGE 


IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS       ....      3 

Punch,  1915 

THE  ANXIOUS  DEAD         ....      4 

The  Spectator,  1917 

THE  WARRIOR         .....      6 

University  Magazine,  1907 

ISANDLWANA     ......         7 

University  Magazine,  1910 

THE  UNCONQUERED  DEAD        ...      9 

University  Magazine,  1906 

THE  CAPTAIN 1 1 

University  Magazine,  1913 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  DERELICT  .         .         -14 

Canadian  Magazine,  1898 

QUEBEC 16 

University  Magazine,  1908 

THEN  AND  Now      .         .         .         .         .17 

Massey's  Magazine,  1896 


Contents 

PAGE 

UNSOLVED       ......     18 

Canadian  Magazine,  1895 

/ 

THE  HOPE  OF  MY  HEART       .         .  19 

Varsity,  1894 

PENANCE         .  .  .         .     20 

Canadian  Magazine,  1896 

SLUMBER  SONGS      .  ...     22 

Canadian  Magazine,  1897 

THE  OLDEST  DRAMA        .         .         .         -24 

University  Magazine,  1907 

RECOMPENSE 25 

Canadian  Magazine,  1896 

MINE  HOST    ....  .26 

The  Westminster,  1897 

EQUALITY        .         .         .         .         .         -27 

The  Westminster,  1898 

ANARCHY         ......     28 

Massey's  Magazine,  1897 

DISARMAMENT          ...  -29 

Toronto  Globe,  1899 

THE  DEAD  MASTER         .         .         .         -3° 

University  Magazine,  1913 

THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  SEA      .  31 

TTw;  Westminster,  1898 

[vij 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE  DYING  OF  PERE  PIERRE  .         .  32 

University  Magazine,  1904 

EVENTIDE        ......     34 

Canadian  Magazine,  1895 

UPON  WATTS'  PICTURE  "Sic  TRANSIT"       .     36 

University  Magazine,  1904 

A  SONG  OF  COMFORT       .         .         .         .38 

Varsity,  1894 

THE  PILGRIMS         .         .         .         .         .40 

University  Magazine,  1905 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS    .         .         -42 

Varsity,  1894 

THE  NIGHT  COMETH        .         .         .         -44 

University  Magazine,  1913 

IN  DUE  SEASON      .         .         .         .         -45 

The  Westminster,  1897 

JOHN  McCRAE         ....          -     47 

An  Essay  in  Character  by  Sir  Andrew  Macphail. 


[  vii 


1lllu0tration0 


PAGE 


JOHN  McCRAE       .         .         .     Frontispiece 

FACSIMILE  OF  AN  AUTOGRAPH  COPY  OF  THE 

POEM  "!N  FLANDERS  FIELDS"         .         ii 

FACSIMILE  OF  A  SKETCH  BY  JOHN  McCRAE 

ON  THE  BACK  OF  A  CARD         .         .       76 

JOHN  McCRAE  AND  BONNEAU         .         .      104 


[ix] 


In  jflanbers 


fln  jflanfcers 


IN  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place;  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  Dead.    Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie, 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe: 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 

The  torch  ;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 

If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields. 


Sbe  anxious  Beat) 

OGUNS,  fall  silent  till  the  dead  men  hear 
Above  their  heads  the  legions  pressing 

on: 

(These  fought  their  fight  in  time  of  bitter  fear, 
And  died  not  knowing  how  the  day  had  gone.) 

O  flashing  muzzles,  pause,  and  let  them  see 
The  coming  dawn  that  streaks  the  sky  afar; 

Then  let  your  mighty  chorus  witness  be 
To  them,  and  Caesar,  that  we  still  make  war. 

Tell  them,  O  guns,  that  we  have  heard  their  call, 
That  we  have  sworn,  and  will  not  turn  aside, 

That  we  will  onward  till  we  win  or  fall, 
That  we  will  keep  the  faith  for  which  they 
died. 


TTbe  Hiuious  Deafc 

Bid  them  be  patient,  and  some  day,  anon, 
They  shall  feel  earth  enwrapt  in  silence  deep; 

Shall  greet,  in  wonderment,  the  quiet  dawn, 
And  in  content  may  turn  them  to  their  sleep. 


[51 


Ebe  Udarrior 

HE  wrought  in  poverty,  the  dull  grey  days, 
But  with  the  night  his  little  lamp-lit 

room 

Was  bright  with  battle  flame,  or  through  a  haze 
Of  smoke  that  stung  his  eyes  he  heard  the 

boom 
Of  Bliicher's  guns;  he  shared  Almeida's  scars, 

And  from  the  close-packed  deck,  about  to  die, 
Looked  up  and  saw  the  Birkenhead's  tall  spars 
Weave  wavering  lines  across  the  Southern  sky: 

Or  in  the  stifling  'tween  decks,  row  on  row, 
At  Aboukir,  saw  how  the  dead  men  lay; 

Charged  with  the  fiercest  in  Busaco's  strife, 

Brave  dreams  are  his — the  flick'ring  lamp  burns 
low — 

Yet  couraged  for  the  battles  of  the  day 
He  goes  to  stand  full  face  to  face  with  life. 

[  6] 


S 


fleanNwana 

CARLET  coats,  and  crash  o'  the  band, 

The  grey  of  a  pauper's  gown, 
A  soldier's  grave  in  Zululand, 
And  a  woman  in  Brecon  Town. 


My  little  lad  for  a  soldier  boy, 

(Mothers  o'  Brecon  Town!) 
My  eyes  for  tears  and  his  for  joy 

When  he  went  from  Brecon  Town, 
His  for  the  flags  and  the  gallant  sights 
His  for  the  medals  and  his  for  the  fights, 
And  mine  for  the  dreary,  rainy  nights 

At  home  in  Brecon  Town. 

They  say  he's  laid  beneath  a  tree, 
(Come  back  to  Brecon  Town!) 

Shouldn't  I  know? — I  was  there  to  see: 
(It's  far  to  Brecon  Town!) 

(71 


IsanMwana 

It's  me  that  keeps  it  trim  and  drest 
With  a  briar  there  and  a  rose  by  his  breast — 
The  English  flowers  he  likes  the  best 
That  I  bring  from  Brecon  Town. 

And  I  sit  beside  him — him  and  me, 

(We're  back  to  Brecon  Town.) 
To  talk  of  the  things  that  used  to  be 

(Grey  ghosts  of  Brecon  Town); 
I  know  the  look  o'  the  land  and  sky, 
And  the  bird  that  builds  in  the  tree  near  by, 
And  times  I  hear  the  jackals  cry, 

And  me  in  Brecon  Town. 

Golden  grey  on  miles  of  sand 

The  dawn  comes  creeping  down; 
It's  day  in  far  off  Zululand 

And  night  in  Brecon  Town. 


[8] 


Ebe  Tflnconquerefc  2>eat> 

"...  defeated,    with   great   loss." 

NOT  we  the  conquered!     Not  to  us  the 
blame 
Of  them  that  flee,  of  them  that  basely 

yield; 

Nor  ours  the  shout  of  victory,  the  fame 
Of  them  that  vanquish  in  a  stricken  field. 

That  day  of  battle  in  the  dusty  heat 
We  lay  and  heard  the  bullets  swish  and  sing 

Like  scythes  amid  the  over-ripened  wheat, 
And  we  the  harvest  of  their  garnering. 

Some  yielded,  No,  not  we!    Not  we,  we  swear 
By  these  our  wounds;  this  trench  upon  the  hill 

Where  all  the  shell-strewn  earth  is  seamed  and 

bare, 
Was  ours  to  keep;  and  lo!  we  have  it  still. 

[91 


TIbe  Tttnconquerefc  IDeafc 

We  might  have  yielded,  even  we,  but  death 
Came  for  our  helper;  like  a  sudden  flood 

The  crashing  darkness  fell;  our  painful  breath 
We  drew  with  gasps  amid  the  choking  blood. 

The  roar  fell  faint  and  farther  off,  and  soon 
Sank  to  a  foolish  humming  in  our  ears, 

Like  crickets  in  the  long,  hot  afternoon 
Among  the  wheat  fields  of  the  olden  years. 

Before  our  eyes  a  boundless  wall  of  red 
Shot  through  by  sudden  streaks  of  jagged 
pain! 

Then  a  slow-gathering  darkness  overhead 
And  rest  came  on  us  like  a  quiet  rain. 

Not  we  the  conquered !    Not  to  us  the  shame, 
Who  hold  our  earthen  ramparts,  nor  shall  cease 

To  hold  them  ever;  victors  we,  who  came 
In  that  fierce  moment  to  our  honoured  peace. 

[10] 


T    "W 

LL 


£bc  Captain 

1707 

ERE  all  the  day  she  swings  from  tide  to 


Here  all  night  long  she  tugs  a  rusted  chain, 
A  masterless  hulk  that  was  a  ship  of  pride, 
Yet  unashamed:  her  memories  remain. 

It  was  Nelson  in  the  Captain,  Cape  St.  Vincent 

far  alee, 
With  the  Vanguard  leading  s'uth'ard  in  the 

haze  — 
Little  Jervis  and  the  Spaniards  and  the  fight 

that  was  to  be, 
Twenty-seven  Spanish  battleships,  great  bullies 

of  the  sea, 
And  the  Captain  there  to  find  her  day  of  days. 

In] 


Captain 


Right  into  them  the  Vanguard  leads,  but  with 

a  sudden  tack 

The  Spaniards  double  swiftly  on  their  trail; 
Now  Jervis  overshoots  his  mark,  like  some  too 

eager  pack, 
He  will  not  overtake  them,  haste  he  e'er  so 

greatly  back, 
But  Nelson  and  the  Captain  will  not  fail. 

Like  a  tigress  on  her  quarry  leaps  the  Captain 

from  her  place, 

To  lie  across  the  fleeing  squadron's  way: 
Heavy  odds  and  heavy  onslaught,  gun  to  gun 

and  face  to  face, 
Win  the  ship  a  name  of  glory,  win  the  men  a 

death  of  grace, 
For  a  little  hold  the  Spanish  fleet  in  play. 

Ended  now  the  Captain's  battle,  stricken  sore 

she  falls  aside 
Holding  still  her  foemen,  beaten  to  the  knee: 


Captain 

As  the  Vanguard  drifted  past  her,  "Well  done, 

Captain,"  Jervis  cried, 
Rang  the  cheers  of  men  that  conquered,  ran  the 

blood  of  men  that  died, 
And  the  ship  had  won  her  immortality. 

Lo!  here  her  progeny  of  steel  and  steam, 
A  funnelled  monster  at  her  mooring  swings: 

Still,  in  our  hearts,  we  see  her  pennant  stream, 
And  "W 'ell  done,  Captain,"  like  a  trumpet  rings. 


I  13 


Song  of  tbe  Derelict 

YE   have  sung  me    your   songs,  ye    have 
chanted  your  rimes 
(I  scorn  your  beguiling,  O  sea!) 
Ye  fondle  me  now,  but  to  strike  me  betimes. 

(A  treacherous  lover,  the  sea !) 
Once  I  saw  as  I  lay,  half-awash  in  the  night 
A  hull  in  the  gloom — a  quick  hail — and  a  light 
And  I  lurched  o'er  to  leeward  and  saved  her  for 

spite 
From  the  doom  that  ye  meted  to  me. 

I  was  sister  to  Terrible,  seventy-four, 

(Yo  ho!  for  the  swing  of  the  sea!) 
And  ye  sank  her  in  fathoms  a  thousand  or  more 

(Alas!  for  the  might  of  the  sea!) 
Ye  taunt  me  and  sing  me  her  fate  for  a  sign ! 

[14] 


Ube  Sons  of  tbe  2>ereitct 

What  harm  can  ye  wreak  more  on  me  or  on  mine? 
Ho  braggart !    I  care  not  for  boasting  of  thine — 
A  fig  for  the  wrath  of  the  sea ! 

Some  night  to  the  lee  of  the  land  I  shall  steal, 

(Heigh-ho  to  be  home  from  the  sea!) 
No  pilot  but  Death  at  the  rudderless  wheel, 

(None  knoweth  the  harbor  as  he!) 
To  lie  where  the  slow  tide  creeps  hither  and  fro 
And  the  shifting  sand  laps  me  around,  for  I  know 
That  my  gallant  old  crew  are  in  Port  long  ago — 
For  ever  at  peace  with  the  sea! 


[isl 


Quebec 

1608-1908 

OF  old,  like  Helen,  guerdon  of  the  strong — 
Like  Helen  fair,  like  Helen  light  of 

word, — 

"The  spoils  unto  the  conquerors  belong. 
Who  winneth  me  must  win  me  by  the  sword." 

Grown  old,  like  Helen,  once  the  jealous  prize 
That  strong  men  battled  for  in  savage  hate, 

Can  she  look  forth  with  unregretful  eyes, 
Where  sleep  Montcalm  and  Wolfe  beside  her 
gate? 


[16] 


£ben  anb  Iftow 

BENEATH  her  window  in  the  fragrant  night 
I    half  forget    how  truant    years   have 

flown 

Since  I  looked  up  to  see  her  chamber-light, 
Or    catch,    perchance,    her    slender    shadow 

thrown 
Upon  the  casement;  but  the  nodding  leaves 

Sweep  lazily  across  the  unlit  pane, 
And  to  and  fro  beneath  the  shadowy  eaves, 

Like  restless  birds,  the  breath  of  coming  rain 
Creeps,  lilac-laden,  up  the  village  street 

When  all  is  still,  as  if  the  very  trees 
Were  listening  for  the  coming  of  her  feet 
That  come  no  more;  yet,  lest   I  weep,  the 

breeze 

Sings  some  forgotten  song  of  those  old  years 
Until  my  heart  grows  far  too  glad  for  tears. 

[17] 


Tllneofteb 

AM  I D  my  books  I  lived  the  hurrying  years, 
Disdaining   kinship  with   my  fellow 

man; 

Alike  to  me  were  human  smiles  and  tears, 
I  cared  not  whither  Earth's  great  life-stream 

ran, 

Till  as  I  knelt  before  my  mouldered  shrine, 
God  made  me  look  into  a  woman's  eyes; 
And  I,  who  thought  all  earthly  wisdom  mine, 

Knew  in  a  moment  that  the  eternal  skies 
Were  measured  but  in  inches,  to  the  quest 
That  lay  before  me  in  that  mystic  gaze. 
"Surely  I  have  been  errant:  it  is  best 
That  I  should  tread,  with  men  their  human 

ways." 

God  took  the  teacher,  ere  the  task  was  learned, 
And  to  my  lonely  books  again  I  turned. 

[18] 


1bope  of  flD\>  Ibeart 


"Delicta  juventutis  et  ignorantius  ejus,  quasumus  ne  memi- 
neris,  Domine," 

1LEFT,  to  earth,  a  little  maiden  fair, 
With  locks  of  gold,  and  eyes  that  shamed 

the  light; 

I  prayed  that  God  might  have  her  in  His  care 
And  sight. 

Earth's  love  was  false;  her  voice,  a  siren's  song; 

(Sweet  mother-earth  was  but  a  lying  name) 

The  path  she  showed  was  but  the  path  of  wrong 

And  shame. 

"Cast  her  not  out!"  I  cry.    God's  kind  words 

come  — 

"  Her  future  is  with  Me,  as  was  her  past; 
It  shall  be  My  good  will  to  bring  her  home 
At  last." 

[19] 


penance 

MY  lover  died  a  century  ago, 
Her  dear  heart  stricken   by    my 

sland'rous  breath, 

Wherefore  the  Gods  forbade  that  I  should  know 
The  peace  of  death. 

Men  pass  my  grave,  and  say,  "'Twere  well  to 

sleep, 

Like  such  an  one,  amid  the  uncaring  dead!" 
How  should  they  know  the  vigils  that  I  keep, 
The  tears  I  shed? 

Upon  the  grave,  I  count  with  lifeless  breath, 
Each  night,  each  year,  the  flowers  that  bloom 

and  die, 

Deeming  the  leaves,  that  fall  to  dreamless  death, 
More  blest  than  I. 

[20] 


Penance 

'Twas  just  last  year — I  heard  two  lovers  pass 
So  near,  I  caught  the  tender  words  he  said: 
To-night  the  rain-drenched   breezes   sway   the 
grass 

Above  his  head. 

That  night  full  envious  of  his  life  was  I, 
That  youth  and  love  should  stand  at  his  behest; 
To-night,  I  envy  him,  that  he  should  lie 
At  utter  rest. 


[21] 


Slumber  Songs 

i 

SLEEP,  little  eyes 
That  brim  with  childish  tears  amid  thy 

play, 

Be  comforted!    No  grief  of  night  can  weigh 
Against  the  joys  that  throng  thy  coming  day. 

Sleep,  little  heart! 

There  is  no  place  in  Slumberland  for  tears: 
Life  soon  enough  will  bring  its  chilling  fears 
And  sorrows  that  will  dim  the  after  years. 
Sleep,  little  heart! 

II 

Ah,  little  eyes 

Dead  blossoms  of  a  springtime  long  ago, 
That  life's  storm  crushed  and  left  to  lie  below 
The  benediction  of  the  falling  snow! 

[22] 


Slumber  Songs 

Sleep,  little  heart 

That  ceased  so  long  ago  its  frantic  beat! 
The  years  that  come  and  go  with  silent  feet 
Have  naught  to  tell  save  this — that  rest  is  sweet. 
Dear  little  heart. 


23] 


Ebe  ©Ifcest  Drama 

"  It  fell  on  a  day,  that  he  went  out  to  his  father  to  the  reap- 
ers. And  he  said  unto  his  father,  My  head,  my  head.  And 
he  said  to  a  lad,  Carry  him  to  his  mother.  And  ...  he 
sat  on  her  knees  till  noon,  and  then  died.  And  she  went 
up,  and  laid  him  on  the  bed.  ...  And  shut  the  door  upon 
him  and  went  out" 

IMMORTAL  story  that  no  mother's  heart 
Ev'n  yet   can   read,  nor  feel  the  biting 

pain 

That  rent  her  soul!     Immortal  not  by  art 
Which  makes  a  long  past  sorrow  sting  again 

Like  grief  of  yesterday:  but  since  it  said 

In  simplest  word  the  truth  which  all  may  see, 

Where  any  mother  sobs  above  her  dead 
And  plays  anew  the  silent  tragedy. 


[24! 


1Recompen0e 

I  SAW  two  sowers  in  Life's  field  at  morn, 
To  whom    came  one   in   angel   guise  and 

said, 
"  Is  it  for  labour  that  a  man  is  born? 

"  Lo:  I  am  Ease.    Come  ye  and  eat  my  bread!" 
Then  gladly  one  forsook  his  task  undone 

And  with  the  Tempter  went  his  slothful  way, 
The  other  toiled  until  the  setting  sun 
With  stealing  shadows  blurred  the  dusty  day. 

Ere  harvest  time,  upon  earth's  peaceful  breast 
Each  laid  him  down  among  the  unreaping 
dead. 

"  Labour  hath  other  recompense  than  rest, 
Else  were  the  toiler  like  the  fool,"  I  said; 

"God  meteth  him  not  less,  but  rather  more 

Because  he  sowed  and  others  reaped  his  store." 

[25] 


flIMne  Tbost 

THERE  stands  a  hostel  by  a  travelled  way; 
Life  is  the  road  and  Death  the  worthy 

host; 

Each  guest  he  greets,  nor  ever  lacks  to  say, 
"How  have  ye  fared?"     They  answer  him, 

the  most, 
"This  lodging  place  is  other  than  we  sought; 

We  had  intended  farther,  but  the  gloom 
Came  on  apace,  and  found  us  ere  we  thought: 
Yet    will    we    lodge.     Thou    hast    abundant 
room." 

Within  sit  haggard  men  that  speak  no  word, 
No  fire  gleams  their  cheerful  welcome  shed; 

No  voice  of  fellowship  or  strife  is  heard 
But  silence  of  a  multitude  of  dead. 

"Naught  can  I  offer  ye,"  quoth  Death,    "but 
rest!" 

And  to  his  chamber  leads  each  tired  guest. 

[26] 


Equality 

I  SAW  a  King,  who  spent  his  life  to  weave 
Into    a     nation    all    his    great    heart 

thought, 
Unsatisfied  until  he  should  achieve 

The  grand  ideal  that  his  manhood  sought; 
Yet  as  he  saw  the  end  within  his  reach, 

Death  took  the  sceptre  from  his  failing  hand, 
And  all  men  said,  "  He  gave  his  life  to  teach 

The  task  of  honour  to  a  sordid  land!" 
Within  his  gates  I  saw,  through  all  those  years, 

One  at  his  humble  toil  with  cheery  face, 
Whom  (being  dead)  the  children,  half  in  tears, 
Remembered  oft,   and  missed  him  from  his 

place. 

If  he  be  greater  that  his  people  blessed 
Than  he  the  children  loved,  God  knoweth  best. 

[27] 


Hnarcbp 

1SAW  a  city  filled  with  lust  and  shame, 
Where    men,   like    wolves,    slunk    through 

the  grim  half-light; 

And  sudden,  in  the  midst  of  it,  there  came 
One  who  spoke  boldly  for  the  cause  of  Right. 

And  speaking,  fell  before  that  brutish  race 
Like  some  poor  wren  that  shrieking  eagles  tear, 

While  brute  Dishonour,  with  her  bloodless  face 
Stood  by  and  smote  his  lips  that  moved  in 
prayer. 

"Speak  not  of  God!     In  centuries  that  word 
Hath  not  been  uttered!    Our  own  king  are 
we." 

And  God  stretched  forth  his  finger  as  He  heard 
And  o'er  it  cast  a  thousand  leagues  of  sea. 

[28] 


^Disarmament 

ONE  spake  amid  the  nations,  "Let  us  cease 
From    darkening    with   strife   the    fair 

World's  light, 

We  who  are  great  in  war  be  great  in  peace. 
No  longer  let  us  plead  the  cause  by  might." 

But  from  a  million  British  graves  took  birth 
A  silent  voice — the  million  spake  as  one — 

"  If  ye  have  righted  all  the  wrongs  of  earth 
Lay  by  the  sword !    I  ts  work  and  ours  is  done." 


29 


She  Beafc  flDaeter 

AMID  earth's  vagrant   noises,   he  caught 
the  note  sublime: 

To-day  around  him  surges  from    the 
silences  of  Time 
A  flood  of  nobler  music,  like  a  river  deep  and 

broad, 

Fit  song  for  heroes  gathered  in  the  banquet- 
hall  of  God. 


30] 


Gbe  Ibarveet  of  tbe  Sea 

THE  earth  grows  white  with  harvest;  all 
day  long 

The  sickles  gleam,  until    the  darkness 
weaves 

Her  web  of  silence  o'er  the  thankful  song 
Of  reapers  bringing  home  the  golden  sheaves. 

The  wave  tops  whiten  on  the  sea  fields  drear, 
And  men  go  forth  at  haggard  dawn  to  reap; 

But  ever  'mid  the  gleaners'  song  we  hear 
The  half-hushed  sobbing  of  the  hearts  that 
weep. 


[31] 


Ebe  Bping  of  pere  flMerre 

"...  with  two  other  priests;  the  same  night  he  died, 
and  was  buried  by  the  shores  of  the  lake  that  bears  his  name." 

Chronicle. 

NAY,  grieve  not  that  ye  can  no  honour 
give 

To  these  poor  bones   that   presently 
must  be 
But  carrion;  since  I  have  sought  to  live 

Upon  God's  earth,  as  He  hath  guided  me, 
I  shall  not  lack!     Where  would  ye  have  me  lie? 

High  heaven  is  higher  than  cathedral  nave: 
Do  men  paint  chancels  fairer  than  the  sky?  ' 

Beside  the  darkened  lake  they  made  his  grave, 
Below  the  altar  of  the  hills;  and  night 
Swung  incense  clouds  of  mist  in  creeping  lines 

[32] 


ttbe  Dpina  of  p&re  pterre 


That   twisted   through   the  tree-trunks,   where 

the  light 

Groped  through  the  arches  of  the  silent  pines: 
And  he,  beside  the  lonely  path  he  trod, 
Lay,  tombed  in  splendour,  in  the  House  of  God. 


[331 


j£\>entit>e 

THE  day  is  past  and  the  toilers  cease; 
The  land  grows  dim  'mid    the  shadows 

grey, 

And  hearts  are  glad,  for  the  dark  brings  peace 
At  the  close  of  day. 

Each  weary  toiler,  with  lingering  pace, 
As  he  homeward  turns,  with  the  long  day  done, 
Looks  out  to  the  west,  with  the  light  on  his  face 
Of  the  setting  sun. 

Yet  some  see  not  (with  their  sin-dimmed  eyes) 
The  promise  of  rest  in  the  fading  light; 
But  the  clouds  loom  dark  in  the  angry  skies 
At  the  fall  of  night. 

I  341 


And  some  see  only  a  golden  sky 

Where  the  elms  their  welcoming  arms  stretch 

wide 

To  the  calling  rooks,  as  they  homeward  fly 
At  the  eventide. 

It  speaks  of  peace  that  comes  after  strife, 
Of  the  rest  He  sends  to  the  hearts  He  tried, 
Of  the  calm  that  follows  the  stormiest  life — 
God's  eventide. 


[351 


TDipon  Hdatts'  picture,  "Sic  transit" 

"  What  I  spent  I  had ;  what  I  saved,  I  lost ;  what  I  gave, 
I  have." 

BUT   yesterday   the  tourney,  all  the  eager 
joy  of  life, 

The    waving  of   the  banners,   and   the 
rattle  of  the  spears, 

The  clash  of  sword  and   harness,  and  the  mad- 
ness of  the  strife; 

To-night  begin  the  silence  and  the  peace  of 
endless  years. 

(One  sings  within.) 

But  yesterday  the  glory  and  the  prize, 
And  best  of  all,  to  lay  it  at  her  feet, 

To  find  my  guerdon  in  her  speaking  eyes: 
I  grudge  them  not, — they  pass,  albeit  sweet. 

[36] 


Watts'  picture,  "  Sic  Uranstt" 


The  ring  of  spears,  the  winning  of  the  fight, 
The  careless  song,  the  cup,  the  love  of  friends, 

The  earth  in  spring  —  to  live,  to  feel  the  light  — 
'Twas  good  the  while  it  lasted:  here  it  ends. 

Remain  the  well-wrought  deed  in  honour  done, 
The  dole  for  Christ's  dear  sake,  the  words  that 
fall 

In  kindliness  upon  some  outcast  one,  — 
They  seemed  so  little:  now  they  are  my  All. 


[37] 


T 


a  Song  of  Comfort 

"Sleep,  weary  ones,  while  ye  may — 
Sleep,  oh,  sleep!" 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


HRO'   May   time  blossoms,  with  whisper 
low, 

The  soft  wind  sang  to  the  dead  below: 
"Think  not  with  regret  on  the  Springtime's 

song 
And  the  task  ye  left  while  your  hands  were 

strong. 
The  song  would  have  ceased  when  the  Spring 

was  past, 
And  the  task  that  was  joyous  be  weary  at 

last." 

To  the  winter  sky  when  the  nights  were  long 
The  tree-tops  tossed  with  a  ceaseless  song: 

[38] 


H  Song  of  Comfort 

"  Do  ye  think  with  regret  on  the  sunny  days 
And  the  path  ye  left,  with  its  untrod  ways? 
The  sun  might  sink  in  a  storm  cloud's  frown 
And  the  path  grow  rough  when  the  night  came 
down." 

In  the  grey  twilight  of  the  autumn  eves, 
It  sighed  as  it  sang  through  the  dying  leaves: 
"Ye  think  with  regret  that  the  world  was 

bright, 
That  your  path  was  short  and  your  task  was 

light; 

The  path,  though  short,  was  perhaps  the  best 
And  the  toil  was  sweet,  that  it  led  to  rest." 


39 


Gbe  pilgrims 

AN  uphill  path,  sun-gleams  between  the 
showers, 

Where  every  beam  that  broke  the  leaden 
sky 

Lit  other  hills  with  fairer  ways  than  ours; 
Some  clustered  graves  where  half  our  memories 

lie; 

And  one  grim  Shadow  creeping  ever  nigh: 
And  this  was  Life. 

Wherein  we  did  another's  burden  seek, 
The  tired  feet  we  helped  upon  the  road, 

The  hand  we  gave  the  weary  and  the  weak, 
The  miles  we  lightened  one  another's  load, 

When,  faint  to  falling,  onward  yet  we  strode: 
This  too  was  Life. 

[40! 


Ube  pilgrims 

Till,  at  the  upland,  as  we  turned  to  go 
Amid  fair  meadows,  dusky  in  the  night, 

The  mists  fell  back  upon  the  road  below; 
Broke  on  our  tired  eyes  the  western  light; 

The  very  graves  were  for  a  moment  bright: 
And  this  was  Death. 


[41 


A 


Sbafcow  of  tbe  Cross 

T  the  drowsy  dusk  when  the  shadows  creep 
From  the  golden  west,  where  the  sun- 
beams sleep, 


An  angel  mused:  "  Is  there  good  or  ill 

In  the  mad  world's  heart,  since  on  Calvary's  hill 

'Round  the  cross  a  mid-day  twilight  fell 
That  darkened  earth  and  o'ershadowed  hell?" 

Through  the  streets  of  a  city  the  angel  sped; 
Like  an  open  scroll  men's  hearts  he  read. 

In  a  monarch's  ear  his  courtiers  lied 
And  humble  faces  hid  hearts  of  pride. 

[42] 


ttbe  Sbaoow  of  tbe  Cross 

Men's  hate  waxed  hot,  and  their  hearts  grew 

cold, 
As  they  haggled  and  fought  for  the  lust  of  gold. 

Despairing,  he  cried,  "After  all  these  years 

Is  there  naught  but  hatred  and  strife  and  tears?" 

He  found  two  waifs  in  an  attic  bare; 
— A  single  crust  was  their  meagre  fare — 

One  strove  to  quiet  the  other's  cries, 

And  the  love-light  dawned  in  her  famished  eyes 

As  she  kissed  the  child  with  a  motherly  air: 
"  I  don't  need  mine,  you  can  have  my  share." 

Then  the  angel  knew  that  the  earthly  cross 
And  the  sorrow  and  shame  were  not  wholly  loss. 

At  dawn,  when  hushed  was  earth's  busy  hum 
And  men  looked  not  for  their  Christ  to  come, 

From  the  attic  poor  to  the  palace  grand, 
The  King  and  the  beggar  went  hand  in  hand. 

[43] 


C 


Gbe  IFUgbt  Cometb 

OMETH  the  night.     The  wind  falls  low, 
The  trees  swing  slowly  to  and  fro: 
Around  the  church  the  headstones  grey 
Cluster,  like  children  strayed  away 

But  found  again,  and  folded  so. 

No  chiding  look  doth  she  bestow: 
If  she  is  glad,  they  cannot  know; 
If  ill  or  well  they  spend  their  day, 
Cometh  the  night. 

Singing  or  sad,  intent  they  go; 

They  do  not  see  the  shadows  grow; 
"There  yet  is  time,"  they  lightly  say, 
"  Before  our  work  aside  we  lay"; 

Their  task  is  but  half-done,  and  lo! 
Cometh  the  night. 

[44] 


Hn  Due  Season 

IF  night  should  come  and  find  me  at  my  toil, 
When  all  Life's  day    I    had,  tho'  faintly, 

wrought, 
And  shallow  furrows,  cleft  in  stony  soil 

Were  all  my  labour:  Shall  I  count  it  naught 

If  only  one  poor  gleaner,  weak  of  hand, 
Shall  pick  a  scanty  sheaf  where  I  have  sown? 

"Nay,  for  of  thee  the  Master  doth  demand 
Thy  work:  the  harvest  rests  with  Him  alone." 


[45 


John  flftcCrae 

Hn  Essas  in  Gbaracter 


[47] 


3obn 

i 

"  In  Flanders  Fields,"  the  piece  of  verse  from 
which  this  little  book  takes  its  title,  first  appeared 
in  Punch  in  the  issue  of  December  8th,  1915.  At 
the  time  I  was  living  in  Flanders  at  a  convent  in 
front  of  Locre,  in  shelter  of  Kemmel  Hill,  which 
lies  seven  miles  south  and  slightly  west  of  Ypres. 
The  piece  bore  no  signature,  but  it  was  unmistak- 
ably from  the  hand  of  John  McCrae. 

From  this  convent  of  women  which  was  the 
headquarters  of  the  6th  Canadian  Field  Ambu- 
lance, I  wrote  to  John  McCrae,  who  was  then 
at  Boulogne,  accusing  him  of  the  authorship, 
and  furnished  him  with  evidence.  From  mem- 
ory— since  at  the  front  one  carries  one  book 
only — I  quoted  to  him  another  piece  of  his  own 
verse,  entitled  "The  Night  Cometh": 

"Cometh  the  night.     The  wind  falls  low, 
The  trees  swing  slowly  to  and  fro; 
Around  the  church  the  headstones  grey 
Cluster,  like  children  stray'd  away, 
But  found  again,  and  folded  so." 

4  [49] 


1fn  $  lathers  Jffel&s 

It  will  be  observed  at  once  by  reference  to  the 
text  that  in  form  the  two  poems  are  identical. 
They  contain  the  same  number  of  lines  and 
feet  as  surely  all  sonnets  do.  Each  travels 
upon  two  rhymes  with  the  members  of  a  broken 
couplet  in  widely  separated  refrain.  To  the 
casual  reader  this  much  is  obvious,  but  there  are 
many  subtleties  in  the  verse  which  made  the 
authorship  inevitable.  It  was  a  form  upon 
which  he  had  worked  for  years,  and  made  his 
own.  When  the  moment  arrived  the  medium 
was  ready.  No  other  medium  could  have  so 
well  conveyed  the  thought. 

This  familiarity  with  his  verse  was  not  a 
matter  of  accident.  For  many  years  I  was 
editor  of  the  University  Magazine,  and  those 
who  are  curious  about  such  things  may  discover 
that  one  half  of  the  poems  contained  in  this 
little  book  were  first  published  upon  its  pages. 
This  magazine  had  its  origin  in  McGill  Univer- 
sity, Montreal,  in  the  year  1902.  Four  years 
later  its  borders  were  enlarged  to  the  wider  term, 
and  it  strove  to  express  an  educated  opinion 
upon  questions  immediately  concerning  Canada, 
and  to  treat  freely  in  a  literary  way  all  matters 
which  have  to  do  with  politics,  industry,  philo- 
sophy, science,  and  art. 

To  this  magazine  during  those  years  John 
McCrae  contributed  all  his  verse.  It  was  there- 
[50] 


f n  Jflan&ers  Jfiel&s 

fore  not  unseemly  that  I  should  have  written 
to  him,  when  "In  Flanders  Fields"  appeared  in 
Punch.  Amongst  his  papers  I  find  my  poor 
letter,  and  many  others  of  which  something 
more  might  be  made  if  one  were  concerned 
merely  with  the  literary  side  of  his  life  rather 
than  with  his  life  itself.  Two  references  will  be 
enough.  Early  in  1905  he  offered  "The  Pil- 
grims" for  publication.  I  notified  him  of  the 
place  assigned  to  it  in  the  magazine,  and  added 
a  few  words  of  appreciation,  and  after  all  these 
years  it  has  come  back  to  me. 

The  letter  is  dated  February  9th,  1905,  and 
reads:  "I  place  the  poem  next  to  my  own  buf- 
foonery. It  is  the  real  stuff  of  poetry.  How 
did  you  make  it?  What  have  you  to  do  with 
medicine?  I  was  charmed  with  it:  the  thought 
high,  the  image  perfect,  the  expression  com- 
plete; not  too  reticent,  not  too  full.  Videntes 
autem  stellam  gavisi  sunt  gaudio  magno  valde. 
In  our  own  tongue, — 'slainte  filidh.'"  To  his 
mother  he  wrote,  "the  Latin  is  translatable 
as,  '  seeing  the  star  they  rejoiced  with  exceeding 
gladness."  For  the  benefit  of  those  whose 
education  has  proceeded  no  further  than  the 
Latin,  it  may  be  explained  that  the  two  last 
words  mean,  "  Hail  to  the  poet." 

To  the  inexperienced  there  is  something  por- 
tentous about  an  appearance  in  print  and  some- 
[51] 


f n  jflan&ers  fftelfcs 

thing  mysterious  about  the  business  of  an  editor. 
A  legend  has  already  grown  up  around  the  pub- 
lication of  "  In  Flanders  Fields"  in  Punch.  The 
truth  is,  "  that  the  poem  was  offered  in  the  usual 
way  and  accepted;  that  is  all."  The  usual  way 
of  offering  a  piece  to  an  editor  is  to  put  it  in  an 
envelope  with  a  postage  stamp  outside  to  carry 
it  there,  and  a  stamp  inside  to  carry  it  back. 
Nothing  else  helps. 

An  editor  is  merely  a  man  who  knows  his 
right  hand  from  his  left,  good  from  evil,  having 
the  honesty  of  a  kitchen  cook  who  will  not 
spoil  his  confection  by  favour  for  a  friend.  Fear 
of  a  foe  is  not  a  temptation,  since  editors  are 
too  humble  and  harmless  to  have  any.  There 
are  of  course  certain  slight  offices  which  an  editor 
can  render,  especially  to  those  whose  writings 
he  does  not  intend  to  print,  but  John  McCrae 
required  none  of  these.  His  work  was  finished 
to  the  last  point.  He  would  bring  his  piece  in 
his  hand  and  put  it  on  the  table.  A  wise  editor 
knows  when  to  keep  his  mouth  shut;  but  now 
I  am  free  to  say  that  he  never  understood  the 
nicety  of  the  semi-colon,  and  his  writing  was 
too  heavily  stopped. 

He  was  not  of  those  who  might  say, — take 
it  or  leave  it;  but  rather, — look  how  perfect  it 
is;  and  it  was  so.  Also  he  was  the  first  to  re- 
cognize that  an  editor  has  some  rights  and  pre- 
[52] 


fln  jflan&ers 


judices,  that  certain  words  make  him  sick;  that 
certain  other  words  he  reserves  for  his  own  use, 
—  "meticulous"  once  a  year,  "adscititious" 
once  in  a  life  time.  This  explains  why  editors 
write  so  little.  In  the  end,  out  of  mere  good 
nature,  or  seeing  the  futility  of  it  all,  they 
contribute  their  words  to  contributors  and  write 
no  more. 

The  volume  of  verse  as  here  printed  is  small. 
The  volume  might  be  enlarged;  it  would  not  be 
improved.  To  estimate  the  value  and  institute 
a  comparison  of  those  herein  set  forth  would  be 
a  congenial  but  useless  task,  which  may  well  be 
left  to  those  whose  profession  it  is  to  offer  instruc- 
tion to  the  young.  To  say  that  "In  Flanders 
Fields"  is  not  the  best  would  involve  one  in 
controversy.  It  did  give  expression  to  a  mood 
which  at  the  time  was  universal,  and  will  re- 
main as  a  permanent  record  when  the  mood  is 
passed  away. 

The  poem  was  first  called  to  my  attention  by 
a  Sapper  officer,  then  Major,  now  Brigadier. 
He  brought  the  paper  in  his  hand  from  his  billet 
in  Dranoutre.  It  was  printed  on  page  468,  and 
Mr.  Punch  will  be  glad  to  be  told  that,  in  his 
annual  index,  in  theissueof  December  29th,  1915, 
he  has  mispelled  the  author's  name,  which  is 
perhaps  the  only  mistake  he  ever  made.  This 
officer  could  himself  weave  the  sonnet  with 
[53] 


•ffn  planters  fftel&s 

deft  fingers,  and  he  pointed  out  many  deep 
things.  It  is  to  the  sappers  the  army  always 
goes  for  "technical  material." 

The  poem,  he  explained,  consists  of  thirteen 
lines  in  iambic  tetrameter  and  two  lines  of  two 
iambics  each;  in  all,  one  line  more  than  the 
sonnet's  count.  There  are  two  rhymes  only, 
since  the  short  lines  must  be  considered  blank, 
and  are,  in  fact,  identical.  But  it  is  a  difficult 
mode.  It  is  true,  he  allowed,  that  the  octet 
of  the  sonnet  has  only  two  rhymes,  but  these 
recur  only  four  times,  and  the  liberty  of  the 
sestet  tempers  its  despotism, — which  I  thought 
a  pretty  phrase.  He  pointed  out  the  dangers 
inherent  in  a  restricted  rhyme,  and  cited  the 
case  of  Browning,  the  great  rhymster,  who  was 
prone  to  resort  to  any  rhyme,  and  frequently 
ended  in  absurdity,  finding  it  easier  to  make  a 
new  verse  than  to  make  an  end. 

At  great  length — but  the  December  evenings 
in  Flanders  are  long,  how  long,  O  Lord! — this 
Sapper  officer  demonstrated  the  skill  with  which 
the  rhymes  are  chosen.  They  are  vocalized. 
Consonant  endings  would  spoil  the  whole  effect. 
They  reiterate  O  and  I,  not  the  O  of  pain  and 
the  Ay  of  assent,  but  the  O  of  wonder,  of  hope, 
of  aspiration;  and  the  I  of  personal  pride,  of 
jealous  immortality,  of  the  Ego  against  the 
Universe.  They  are,  he  went  on  to  expound,  a 
[54] 


Un  Jflanfcers  ffiel&s 

recurrence  of  the  ancient  question:  "How  are 
the  dead  raised,  and  with  what  body  do  they 
come?"  "How  shall  I  bear  my  light  across?" 
and  of  the  defiant  cry:  "  If  Christ  be  not  raised, 
then  is  our  faith  vain." 

The  theme  has  three  phases:  the  first  a 
calm,  a  deadly  calm,  opening  statement  in  five 
lines;  the  second  in  four  lines,  an  explanation, 
a  regret,  a  reiteration  of  the  first;  the  third, 
without  preliminary  crescendo,  breaking  out 
into  passionate  adjuration  in  vivid  metaphor, 
a  poignant  appeal  which  is  at  once  a  blessing 
and  a  curse.  In  the  closing  line  is  a  satisfying 
return  to  the  first  phase, — and  the  thing  is  done. 
One  is  so  often  reminded  of  the  poverty  of  men's 
invention,  their  best  being  so  incomplete,  their 
greatest  so  trivial,  that  one  welcomes  what — 
this  Sapper  officer  surmised — may  become  a 
new  and  fixed  mode  of  expression  in  verse. 

As  to  the  theme  itself — I  am  using  his  words: 
what  is  his  is  mine;  what  is  mine  is  his — the 
interest  is  universal.  The  dead,  still  conscious, 
fallen  in  a  noble  cause,  see  their  graves  over- 
blown in  a  riot  of  poppy  bloom.  The  poppy  is 
the  emblem  of  sleep.  The  dead  desire  to  sleep 
undisturbed,  but  yet  curiously  take  an  interest 
in  passing  events.  They  regret  that  they  have 
not  been  permitted  to  live  out  their  life  to  its 
normal  end.  They  call  on  the  living  to  finish 

[551 


In  jflan&ers 


their  task,  else  they  shall  not  sink  into  that 
complete  repose  which  they  desire,  in  spite  of 
the  balm  of  the  poppy.  Formalists  may  pro- 
test that  the  poet  is  not  sincere,  since  it  is  the 
seed  and  not  the  flower  that  produces  sleep. 
They  might  as  well  object  that  the  poet  has  no 
right  to  impersonate  the  dead.  We  common 
folk  know  better.  We  know  that  in  personating 
the  dear  dead,  and  calling  in  bell-like  tones  on 
the  inarticulate  living,  the  poet  shall  be  enabled 
to  break  the  lightnings  of  the  Beast,  and  thereby 
he,  being  himself,  alas!  dead,  yet  speaketh; 
and  shall  speak,  to  ones  and  twos  and  a  host. 
As  it  is  written  in  resonant  bronze:  vivos  . 

VOCO  .  MORTUOS  .   PLANGO   .    FULGURA   .   FRANCO! 

words  cast  by  this  officer  upon  a  church  bell 
which  still  rings  in  far  away  Orwell  in  memory 
of  his  father  —  and  of  mine. 

By  this  time  the  little  room  was  cold.  For 
some  reason  the  guns  had  awakened  in  the 
Salient.  An  Indian  trooper  who  had  just  come 
up,  and  did  not  yet  know  the  orders,  blew 
"Lights  out,"  —  on  a  cavalry  trumpet.  The 
sappers  work  by  night.  The  officer  turned  and 
went  his  way  to  his  accursed  trenches,  leaving 
the  verse  with  me. 

John  McCrae  witnessed  only  once  the  raw 
earth  of  Flanders  hide  its  shame  in  the  warm 
scarlet  glory  of  the  poppy.  Others  have  watched 
[56] 


in  jplanfcers  tfielbs 

this  resurrection  of  the  flowers  in  four  successive 
seasons,  a  fresh  miracle  every  time  it  occurs. 
Also  they  have  observed  the  rows  of  crosses 
lengthen,  the  torch  thrown,  caught,  and  carried 
to  victory.  The  dead  may  sleep.  We  have  not 
broken  faith  with  them. 

It  is  little  wonder  then  that  "In  Flanders 
Fields"  has  become  the  poem  of  the  army.  The 
soldiers  have  learned  it  with  their  hearts,  which 
is  quite  a  different  thing  from  committing  it 
to  memory.  It  circulates,  as  a  song  should 
circulate,  by  the  living  word  of  mouth,  not  by 
printed  characters.  That  is  the  true  test  of 
poetry, — its  insistence  on  making  itself  learnt 
by  heart.  The  army  has  varied  the  text;  but 
each  variation  only  serves  to  reveal  more  clearly 
the  mind  of  the  maker.  The  army  says, 
"Among  the  crosses";  "felt  dawn  and  sunset 
glow";  "Lived  and  were  loved."  The  army 
may  be  right:  it  usually  is. 

Nor  has  any  piece  of  verse  in  recent  years  been 
more  widely  known  in  the  civilian  world.  It 
was  used  on  every  platform  from  which  men 
were  being  adjured  to  adventure  their  lives  or 
their  riches  in  the  great  trial  through  which 
the  present  generation  has  passed.  Many 
"replies"  have  been  made.  The  best  I  have 
seen  was  written  in  the  New  York  Evening  Post. 
None  but  those  who  were  prepared  to  die  before 
[57] 


Mitb  tbe  <3uns 

Vimy  Ridge  that  early  April  day  of  1916  will 
ever  feel  fully  the  great  truth  of  Mr.  Lillard's 
opening  lines,  as  they  speak  for  all  Americans: 

"Rest  ye  in  peace,  ye  Flanders  dead. 
The  fight  that  ye  so  bravely  led 
We've  taken  up." 

They  did — and  bravely.  They  heard  the  cry 
— "  If  ye  break  faith,  we  shall  not  sleep." 

II 

If  there  was  nothing  remarkable  about  the 
publication  of  "In  Flanders  Fields,"  there  was 
something  momentous  in  the  moment  of  writ- 
ing it.  And  yet  it  was  a  sure  instinct  which 
prompted  the  writer  to  send  it  to  Punch.  A 
rational  man  wishes  to  know  the  news  of  the 
world  in  which  he  lives;  and  if  he  is  interested 
in  life,  he  is  eager  to  know  how  men  feel  and 
comport  themselves  amongst  the  events  which 
are  passing.  For  this  purpose  Punch  is  the 
great  newspaper  of  the  world,  and  these  lines 
describe  better  than  any  other  how  men  felt 
in  that  great  moment. 

It  was  in  April,  1915.  The  enemy  was  in 
the  full  cry  of  victory.  All  that  remained  for 
him  was  to  occupy  Paris,  as  once  he  did  before, 
and  to  seize  the  Channel  ports.  Then  France, 
England,  and  the  world  were  doomed.  All 


TOtb  tbe  <3uns 

winter  the  German  had  spent  in  repairing  his 
plans,  which  had  gone  somewhat  awry  on  the 
Marne.  He  had  devised  his  final  stroke,  and 
it  fell  upon  the  Canadians  at  Ypres.  This 
battle,  known  as  the  second  battle  of  Ypres, 
culminated  on  April  22nd,  but  it  really  extended 
over  the  whole  month. 

The  inner  history  of  war  is  written  from  the 
recorded  impressions  of  men  who  have  endured 
it.  John  McCrae  in  a  series  of  letters  to  his 
mother,  cast  in  the  form  of  a  diary,  has  set 
down  in  words  the  impressions  which  this  event 
of  the  war  made  upon  a  peculiarly  sensitive 
mind.  The  account  is  here  transcribed  without 
any  attempt  at  "amplification,"  or  "clarifying" 
by  notes  upon  incidents  or  references  to  places. 
These  are  only  too  well  known. 

Friday,  April  23rd,  1915. 

As  we  moved  up  last  evening,  there  was  heavy  firing 
about  4.30  on  our  left,  the  hour  at  which  the  general  attack 
with  gas  was  made  when  the  French  line  broke.  We  could 
see  the  shells  bursting  over  Ypres,  and  in  a  small  village 

to  our  left,  meeting  General ,  C.R.A.,  of  one  of  the 

divisions,  he  ordered  us  to  halt  for  orders.  We  sent  for- 
ward notifications  to  our  Headquarters,  and  sent  out 
orderlies  to  get  in  touch  with  the  batteries  of  the  farther 
forward  brigades  already  in  action.  The  story  of  these 
guns  will  be  read  elsewhere.  They  had  a  tough  time,  but 
got  away  safely,  and  did  wonderful  service.  One  battery 
fired  in  two  opposite  directions  at  once,  and  both  batteries 

[59] 


Mitb  tbe  Guns 

fired  at  point  blank,  open  sights,  at  Germans  in  the  open. 
They  were  at  times  quite  without  infantry  on  their  front, 
for  their  position  was  behind  the  French  to  the  left  of  the 
British  line. 

As  we  sat  on  the  road  we  began  to  see  the  French 
stragglers — men  without  arms,  wounded  men,  teams, 
wagons,  civilians,  refugees — some  by  the  roads,  some  across 
country,  all  talking,  shouting — the  very  picture  of  debacle. 
I  must  say  they  were  the  "tag  enders"  of  a  fighting  line 
rather  than  the  line  itself.  They  streamed  on,  and  shouted 
to  us  scraps  of  not  too  inspiriting  information  while  we 
stood  and  took  our  medicine,  and  picked  out  gun  positions 
in  the  fields  in  case  we  had  to  go  in  there  and  then.  The 
men  were  splendid;  not  a  word;  not  a  shake,  and  it  was 
a  terrific  test.  Traffic  whizzed  by — ambulances,  trans- 
port, ammunition,  supplies,  despatch  riders — and  the 
shells  thundered  into  the  town,  or  burst  high  in  the  air 
nearer  us,  and  the  refugees  streamed.  Women,  old  men, 
little  children,  hopeless,  tearful,  quiet  or  excited,  tired, 
dodging  the  traffic, — and  the  wounded  in  singles  or  in 
groups.  Here  and  there  I  could  give  a  momentary  help, 
and  the  ambulances  picked  up  as  they  could.  So  the 
cold  moonlight  night  wore  on — no  change  save  that  the 
towers  of  Ypres  showed  up  against  the  glare  of  the  city 
burning;  and  the  shells  still  sailed  in. 

At  9.30  our  ammunition  column  (the  part  that  had 

been  "in")  appeared.  Major had  waited,  like  Casa- 

bianca,  for  orders  until  the  Germans  were  500  yards  away; 
then  he  started,  getting  safely  away  save  for  one  wagon 
lost,  and  some  casualties  in  men  and  horses.  He  found 
our  column,  and  we  prepared  to  send  forward  ammunition 
as  soon  as  we  could  learn  where  the  batteries  had  taken 
up  position  in  retiring,  for  retire  they  had  to.  Eleven, 
twelve,  and  finally  grey  day  broke,  and  we  still  waited. 
At  3.45  word  came  to  go  in  and  support  a  French  counter- 
[60] 


TTClttb  tbe  (Buns 

attack  at  4.30  A.M.  Hastily  we  got  the  order  spread;  it 
was  4  A.M.  and  three  miles  to  go. 

Of  one's  feelings  all  this  night — of  the  asphyxiated  French 
soldiers — of  the  women  and  children — of  the  cheery, 
steady  British  reinforcements  that  moved  up  quietly 
past  us,  going  up,  not  back — I  could  write,  but  you  can 
imagine. 

We  took  the  road  at  once,  and  went  up  at  the  gallop. 
The  Colonel  rode  ahead  to  scout  a  position  (we  had  only 
four  guns,  part  of  the  ammunition  column,  and  the  brigade 
staff;  the  ist  and  4th  batteries  were  back  in  reserve  at 
our  last  billet).  Along  the  roads  we  went,  and  made  our 
place  on  time,  pulled  up  for  ten  minutes  just  short  of  the 
position,  where  I  put  Bonfire  [his  horse]  with  my  groom 
in  a  farmyard,  and  went  forward  on  foot — only  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  or  so — then  we  advanced.  Bonfire  had  soon  to 
move;  a  shell  killed  a  horse  about  four  yards  away  from 
him,  and  he  wisely  took  other  ground.  Meantime  we 
went  on  into  the  position  we  were  to  occupy  for  seventeen 
days,  though  we  could  not  guess  that.  I  can  hardly  say 
more  than  that  it  was  near  the  Yser  Canal. 

We  got  into  action  at  once,  under  heavy  gunfire.  We 
were  to  the  left  entirely  of  the  British  line,  and  be- 
hind French  troops,  and  so  we  remained  for  eight  days. 
A  Colonel  of  the  R.A.,  known  to  fame,  joined  us  and 
camped  with  us;  he  was  our  link  with  the  French  Head- 
quarters, and  was  in  local  command  of  the  guns  in  this 
locality.  When  he  left  us  eight  days  later  he  said,  "I  am 
glad  to  get  out  of  this  hell-hole."  He  was  a  great  comfort 
to  us,  for  he  is  very  capable,  and  the  entire  battle  was 
largely  fought  "on  our  own,"  following  the  requests  of  the 
Infantry  on  our  front,  and  scarcely  guided  by  our  own 
staff  at  all.  We  at  once  set  out  to  register  our  targets, 
and  almost  at  once  had  to  get  into  steady  firing  on  quite  a 
large  sector  of  front.  We  dug  in  the  guns  as  quickly  as  we 
[61] 


lUitb  tbe  (Buns 

could,  and  took  as  Headquarters  some  infantry  trenches 
already  sunk  on  a  ridge  near  the  canal.  We  were  sub- 
ject from  the  first  to  a  steady  and  accurate  shelling, 
for  we  were  all  but  in  sight,  as  were  the  German  trenches 
about  2000  yards  to  our  front.  At  times  the  fire  would 
come  in  salvos  quickly  repeated.  Bursts  of  fire  would  be 
made  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  at  a  time.  We  got  all 
varieties  of  projectile,  from  3  inch  to  8  inch,  or  perhaps  10 
inch;  the  small  ones  usually  as  air  bursts,  the  larger 
percussion  and  air,  and  the  heaviest  percussion  only. 

My  work  began  almost  from  the  start — steady  but 
never  overwhelming,  except  perhaps  once  for  a  few  minutes. 
A  little  cottage  behind  our  ridge  served  as  a  cook-house, 
but  was  so  heavily  hit  the  second  day  that  we  had  to  be 
chary  of  it.  During  bursts  of  fire  I  usually  took  the  back 
slope  of  the  sharply  crested  ridge  for  what  shelter  it  offered. 
At  3  our  ist  and  4th  arrived,  and  went  into  action  at 
once  a  few  hundred  yards  in  our  rear.  Wires  were  at 
once  put  out,  to  be  cut  by  shells  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  times,  but  always  repaired  by  our  indefatigable  line- 
men. So  the  day  wore  on;  in  the  night  the  shelling  still 
kept  up:  three  different  German  attacks  were  made  and 
repulsed.  If  we  suffered  by  being  close  up,  the  Germans 
suffered  from  us,  for  already  tales  of  good  shooting  came 
down  to  us.  I  got  some  sleep  despite  the  constant  firing, 
for  we  had  none  last  night. 

Saturday,  April  34th,  1915. 

Behold  us  now  anything  less  than  two  miles  north  of 
Ypres  on  the  west  side  of  the  canal;  this  runs  north,  each 
bank  flanked  with  high  elms,  with  bare  trunks  of  the  famil- 
iar Netherlands  type.  A  few  yards  to  the  West  a  main 
road  runs,  likewise  bordered;  the  Censor  will  allow  me  to 
say  that  on  the  high  bank  between  these  we  had  our  head- 
quarters; the  ridge  is  perhaps  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  high, 

[62] 


Wttb  tbe  (Buns 

and  slopes  forward  fifty  yards  to  the  water,  the  back  is 
more  steep,  and  slopes  quickly  to  a  little  subsidiary  water 
way,  deep  but  dirty.  Where  the  guns  were  I  shall  not  say; 
but  they  were  not  far,  and  the  German  aeroplanes  that 
viewed  us  daily  with  all  but  impunity  knew  very  well. 
A  road  crossed  over  the  canal,  and  interrupted  the  ridge; 
across  the  road  from  us  was  our  billet — the  place  we  cooked 
in,  at  least,  and  where  we  usually  took  our  meals.  Look- 
ing to  the  south  between  the  trees,  we  could  see  the  ruins 
of  the  city:  to  the  front  on  the  sky  line,  with  rolling  ground 
in  the  front,  pitted  by  French  trenches,  the  German 
lines;  to  the  left  front,  several  farms  and  a  windmill, 
and  farther  left,  again  near  the  canal,  thicker  trees  and 
more  farms.  The  farms  and  windmills  were  soon  burnt. 
Several  farms  we  used  for  observing  posts  were  also  quickly 
burnt  during  the  next  three  or  four  days.  All  along  be- 
hind us  at  varying  distances  French  and  British  guns; 
the  flashes  at  night  lit  up  the  sky. 

These  high  trees  were  at  once  a  protection  and  a  danger. 
Shells  that  struck  them  were  usually  destructive.  When 
we  came  in  the  foliage  was  still  very  thin.  Along  the 
road,  which  was  constantly  shelled  "on  spec"  by  the 
Germans,  one  saw  all  the  sights  of  war:  wounded  men 
limping  or  carried,  ambulances,  trains  of  supply,  troops, 
army  mules,  and  tragedies.  I  saw  one  bicycle  orderly:  a 
shell  exploded  and  he  seemed  to  pedal  on  for  eight  or  ten 
revolutions  and  then  collapsed  in  a  heap — dead.  Strag- 
gling soldiers  would  be  killed  or  wounded,  horses  also,  until 
it  got  to  be  a  nightmare.  I  used  to  shudder  every  time  I 
saw  wagons  or  troops  on  that  road.  My  dugout  looked 
out  on  it.  I  got  a  square  hole,  8  by  8,  dug  in  the  side  of 
the  hill  (west),  roofed  over  with  remnants  to  keep  out  the 
rain,  and  a  little  sandbag  parapet  on  the  back  to  prevent 
pieces  of  "back-kick  shells"  from  coming  in,  or  prematures 
from  our  own  or  the  French  guns  for  that  matter.  Some 

[63] 


tbe  Guns 


straw  on  the  floor  completed  it.  The  ground  was  treach- 
erous and  a  slip  the  first  night  nearly  buried  -  .  So 
we  had  to  be  content  with  walls  straight  up  and  down, 
and  trust  to  the  height  of  the  bank  for  safety.  All  places 
along  the  bank  were  more  or  less  alike,  all  squirrel  holes. 

This  morning  we  supported  a  heavy  French  attack  at 
4.30;  there  had  been  three  German  attacks  in  the  night, 
and  everyone  was  tired.  We  got  heavily  shelled.  In  all 
eight  or  ten  of  our  trees  were  cut  by  shells  —  cut  right  off, 
the  upper  part  of  the  tree  subsiding  heavily  and  straight 
down,  as  a  usual  thing.  One  would  think  a  piece  a  foot 
long  was  just  instantly  cut  out;  and  these  trees  were 
about  1  8  inches  in  diameter.  The  gas  fumes  came  very 
heavily:  some  blew  down  from  the  infantry  trenches, 
some  came  from  the  shells:  one's  eyes  smarted,  and  breath- 
ing was  very  laboured.  Up  to  noon  to-day  we  fired  2500 
rounds.  Last  night  Col.  Morrison  and  I  slept  at  a  French 
Colonel's  headquarters  near  by,  and  in  the  night  our  room 
was  filled  up  with  wounded.  I  woke  up  and  shared  my 
bed  with  a  chap  with  "a  wounded  leg  and  a  chill."  Prob- 
ably thirty  wounded  were  brought  into  the  one  little  room. 

Col.  -  ,  R.A.,  kept  us  in  communication  with  the 
French  General  in  whose  command  we  were.  I  bunked 
down  in  the  trench  on  the  top  of  the  ridge:  the  sky  was 
red  with  the  glare  of  the  city  still  burning,  and  we  could 
hear  the  almost  constant  procession  of  large  shells  sailing 
over  from  our  left  front  into  the  city  :  the  crashes  of  their 
explosion  shook  the  ground  where  we  were.  After  a  ter- 
ribly hard  day,  professionally  and  otherwise,  I  slept  well, 
but  it  rained  and  the  trench  was  awfully  muddy  and  wet. 

Sunday,  April  asth,  1915. 

The  weather  brightened  up,  and  we  got  at  it  again. 
This  day  we  had  several  heavy  attacks,  prefaced  by  heavy 
artillery  fire;  these  bursts  of  fire  would  result  in  our  get- 

[64] 


lUitb  tbe  (Buns 

ting  100  to  150  rounds  right  on  us  or  nearby:  the  heavier 
our  fire  (which  was  on  the  trenches  entirely)  the  heavier 
theirs. 

Our  food  supply  came  up  at  dusk  in  wagons,  and  the 
water  was  any  we  could  get,  but  of  course  treated  with 
chloride  of  lime.  The  ammunition  had  to  be  brought 
down  the  roads  at  the  gallop,  and  the  more  firing  the  more 
wagons.  The  men  would  quickly  carry  the  rounds  to 
the  guns,  as  the  wagons  had  to  halt  behind  our  hill.  The 
good  old  horses  would  swing  around  at  the  gallop,  pull  up 
in  an  instant,  and  stand  puffing  and  blowing,  but  with 
their  heads  up,  as  if  to  say,  "Wasn't  that  well  done?" 
It  makes  you  want  to  kiss  their  dear  old  noses,  and  assure 
them  of  a  peaceful  pasture  once  more.  To-day  we  got 
our  dressing  station  dugout  complete,  and  slept  there  at 
night. 

Three  farms  in  succession  burned  on  our  front — colour 
in  the  otherwise  dark.  The  flashes  of  shells  over  the 
front  and  rear  in  all  directions.  The  city  still  burning 
and  the  procession  still  going  on.  I  dressed  a  number 
of  French  wounded;  one  Turco  prayed  to  Allah  and 
Mohammed  all  the  time  I  was  dressing  his  wound.  On 
the  front  field  one  can  see  the  dead  lying  here  and  there, 
and  in  places  where  an  assault  has  been  they  lie  very  thick 
on  the  front  slopes  of  the  German  trenches.  Our  tele- 
phone wagon  team  hit  by  a  shell;  two  horses  killed  and 
another  wounded.  I  did  what  I  could  for  the  wounded  one, 
and  he  subsequently  got  well.  This  night,  beginning  after 
dark,  we  got  a  terrible  shelling,  which  kept  up  till  2  or  3 
in  the  morning.  Finally  I  got  to  sleep,  though  it  was  still 
going  on.  We  must  have  got  a  couple  of  hundred  rounds, 
in  single  or  pairs.  Every  one  burst  over  us,  would  light 
up  the  dugout,  and  every  hit  in  front  would  shake  the 
ground  and  bring  down  small  bits  of  earth  on  us,  or  else 
the  earth  thrown  into  the  air  by  the  explosion  would 

*  [65] 


tditb  tbe  <3uns 

come  spattering  down  on  our  roof,  and  into  the  front  of 
the  dugout.  Col.  Morrison  tried  the  mess  house,  but  the 
shelling  was  too  heavy,  and  he  and  the  adjutant  joined 
Cosgrave  and  me,  and  we  four  spent  an  anxious  night 
there  in  the  dark.  One  officer  was  on  watch  "on  the 
bridge"  (as  we  called  the  trench  at  the  top  of  the  ridge) 
with  the  telephones. 

Monday,  April  a6th,  1915. 

Another  day  of  heavy  actions,  but  last  night  much 
French  and  British  artillery  has  come  in,  and  the  place  is 
thick  with  Germans.  There  are  many  prematures  (with 
so  much  firing)  but  the  pieces  are  usually  spread  before 
they  get  to  us.  It  is  disquieting,  however,  I  must  say. 
And  all  the  time  the  birds  sing  in  the  trees  over  our  heads. 
Yesterday  up  to  noon  we  fired  3000  rounds  for  the  twenty- 
four  hours;  to-day  we  have  fired  much  less,  but  we  have 
registered  fresh  fronts,  and  burned  some  farms  behind  the 
German  trenches.  About  six  the  fire  died  down,  and  we 
had  a  peaceful  evening  and  night,  and  Cosgrave  and  I  in 
the  dugout  made  good  use  of  it.  The  Colonel  has  an 
individual  dugout,  and  Dodds  sleeps  "topside"  in  the 
trench.  To  all  this,  put  in  a  background  of  anxiety  lest 
the  line  break,  for  we  are  just  where  it  broke  before. 

Tuesday,  April  ayth,  1915. 

This  morning  again  registering  batteries  on  new  points. 
At  1.30  a  heavy  attack  was  prepared  by  the  French  and 
ourselves.  The  fire  was  very  heavy  for  half  an  hour  and 
the  enemv  got  busy  too.  I  had  to  cross  over  to  the  bat- 
teries during  it,  an  unpleasant  journey.  More  gas  at- 
t°cks  in  the  afternoon.  The  French  did  not  appear  to 
p-ess  the  attack  hard,  but  in  the  light  of  subsequent 
events  it  probably  was  only  a  feint.  It  seems  likely  that 
about  this  time  our  people  began  to  thin  out  the  artillery 

[66] 


Mitb  tbe  Guns 

again  for  use  elsewhere;  but  this  did  not  at  once  become 
apparent.  At  night  usually  the  heavies  farther  back 
take  up  the  story,  and  there  is  a  duel.  The  Germans 
fire  on  our  roads  after  dark  to  catch  reliefs  and  transport. 
I  suppose  ours  do  the  same. 

Wednesday,  April  28th,  1915. 

I  have  to  confess  to  an  excellent  sleep  last  night.  At 
times  anxiety  says,  "I  don't  want  a  meal,"  but  experience 
says  "you  need  your  food,"  so  I  attend  regularly  to  that. 
The  billet  is  not  too  safe  either.  Much  German  air  re- 
connaissance over  us,  and  heavy  firing  from  both  sides 
during  the  day.  At  6.45  we  again  prepared  a  heavy  artil- 
lery attack,  but  the  infantry  made  little  attempt  to  go  on. 
We  are  perhaps  the  "chopping  block,"  and  our  "prepara- 
tions" may  be  chiefly  designed  to  prevent  detachments 
of  troops  being  sent  from  our  front  elsewhere. 

I  have  said  nothing  of  what  goes  on  on  our  right  and 
left;  but  it  is  equally  part  and  parcel  of  the  whole  game; 
this  eight  mile  front  is  constantly  heavily  engaged.  At 
intervals,  too,  they  bombard  Ypres.  Our  back  lines,  too, 
have  to  be  constantly  shifted  on  account  of  shell  fire,  and 
we  have  desultory  but  constant  losses  there.  In  the 
evening  rifle  fire  gets  more  frequent,  and  bullets  are  con- 
stantly singing  over  us.  Some  of  them  are  probably 
ricochets,  for  we  are  1800  yards,  or  nearly,  from  the 
nearest  German  trench. 

Thursday,  April  29th,  1915. 

This  morning  our  billet  was  hit.  We  fire  less  these 
days,  but  still  a  good  deal.  There  was  a  heavy  French 
attack  on  our  left.  The  "gas"  attacks  can  be  seen  from 
here.  The  yellow  cloud  rising  up  is  for  us  a  signal  to  open, 
and  we  do.  The  wind  is  from  our  side  to-day,  and  a  good 
thing  it  is.  Several  days  ago  during  the  firing  a  big  Oxford- 

[67] 


lUttb  tbe  Guns 

grey  dog,  with  beautiful  brown  eyes,  came  to  us  in  a 
panic.  He  ran  to  me,  and  pressed  his  head  hard  against 
my  leg.  So  I  got  him  a  safe  place  and  he  sticks  by  us. 
We  call  him  Fleabag,  for  he  looks  like  it. 

This  night  they  shelled  us  again  heavily  for  some  hours — 
the  same  shorts,  hits,  overs  on  percussion,  and  great 
yellow-green  air  bursts.  One  feels  awfully  irritated  by 
the  constant  din — a  mixture  of  anger  and  apprehension. 

Friday.  April  30th,  1915. 

Thick  mist  this  morning,  and  relative  quietness;  but 
before  it  cleared  the  Germans  started  again  to  shell  us. 
At  10  it  cleared,  and  from  10  to  2  we  fired  constantly. 
The  French  advanced,  and  took  some  ground  on  our  left 
front  and  a  batch  of  prisoners.  This  was  at  a  place  we 
call  Twin  Farms.  Our  men  looked  curiously  at  the  Boches 
as  they  were  marched  through.  Some  better  activity  in 
the  afternoon  by  the  Allies'  aeroplanes.  The  German 
planes  have  had  it  too  much  their  way  lately.  Many  of 
to-day's  shells  have  been  very  large — 10  or  12  inch;  a 
lot  of  tremendous  holes  dug  in  the  fields  just  behind  us. 

Saturday,  May  rst,  1915. 

May  day!  Heavy  bombardment  at  intervals  through 
the  day.  Another  heavy  artillery  preparation  at  3.25, 
but  no  French  advance.  We  fail  to  understand  why,  but 
orders  go.  We  suffered  somewhat  during  the  day. 
Through  the  evening  and  night  heavy  firing  at  intervals. 

Sunday,  May  and,  1915. 

Heavy  gunfire  again  this  morning.     Lieut.  H was 

killed  at  the  guns.  His  diary's  last  words  were,  "It  has 
quieted  a  little  and  I  shall  try  to  get  a  good  sleep."  I 
said  the  Committal  Service  over  him,  as  well  as  I  could 
from  memory.  A  soldier's  death!  Batteries  again  re- 
[68] 


Mitb  tbe  Guns 

gistering  barrages  or  barriers  of  fire  at  set  ranges.  At 
3  the  Germans  attacked,  preceded  by  gas  clouds.  Fight- 
ing went  on  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  during  which  their 
guns  hammered  heavily  with  some  loss  to  us.  The  French 
lines  are  very  uneasy,  and  we  are  correspondingly  anx- 
ious. The  infantry  fire  was  very  heavy,  and  we  fired 
incessantly,  keeping  on  into  the  night.  Despite  the 
heavy  fire  I  got  asleep  at  12,  and  slept  until  daylight  which 
comes  at  3. 

Monday,  May  3rd,  1915. 

A  clear  morning,  and  the  accursed  German  aeroplanes 
over  our  positions  again.  They  are  usually  fired  at,  but 
no  luck.  To-day  a  shell  on  our  hill  dug  out  a  cannon 
ball  about  six  inches  in  diameter — probably  of  Napoleon's 
or  earlier  times — heavily  rusted.  A  German  attack 
began,  but  half  an  hour  of  artillery  fire  drove  it  back. 
Major ,  R.A.,  was  up  forward,  and  could  see  the  Ger- 
man reserves.  Our  4th  was  turned  on:  first  round  100 
over;  shortened  and  went  into  gunfire,  and  his  report  was 
that  the  effect  was  perfect.  The  same  occurred  again  in 
the  evening,  and  again  at  midnight.  The  Germans  were 
reported  to  be  constantly  massing  for  attack,  and  we  as 
constantly  "went  to  them."  The  German  guns  shelled 
us  as  usual  at  intervals.  This  must  get  very  tiresome  to 
read;  but  through  it  all,  it  must  be  mentioned  that  the 
constantly  broken  communications  have  to  be  mended, 
rations  and  ammunition  brought  up,  the  wounded  to  be 
dressed  and  got  away.  Our  dugouts  have  the  French 
Engineers  and  French  Infantry  next  door  by  turns.  They 
march  in  and  out.  The  back  of  the  hill  is  a  network  of 
wires,  so  that  one  has  to  go  carefully. 

Tuesday,  May  4th,  1915. 

Despite  intermittent  shelling  and  some  casualties  the 
quietest  day  yet;  but  we  live  in  an  uneasy  atmosphere  as 

[69] 


Witb  tbe  <3uns 

German  attacks  are  constantly  being  projected,  and  our 
communications  are  interrupted  and  scrappy.  We  get 
no  news  of  any  sort  and  have  just  to  sit  tight  and  hold  on. 
Evening  closed  in  rainy  and  dark.  Our  dugout  is  very 
slenderly  provided  against  it,  and  we  get  pretty  wet  and 
very  dirty.  In  the  quieter  morning  hours  we  get  a  chance 
of  a  wash  and  occasionally  a  shave. 

Wednesday,  May  sth,  1913. 

Heavily  hammered  in  the  morning  from  7  to  9,  but  at 
9  it  let  up;  the  sun  came  out  and  things  looked  better. 
Evidently  our  line  has  again  been  thinned  of  artillery  and 
the  requisite  minimum  to  hold  is  left.  There  were  German 
attacks  to  our  right,  just  out  of  our  area.  Later  on  we 
and  they  both  fired  heavily,  the  first  battery  getting  it 
especially  hot.  The  planes  over  us  again  and  again,  to 
coach  the  guns.  An  attack  expected  at  dusk,  but  it  turned 
only  to  heavy  night  shelling,  so  that  with  our  fire,  theirs, 
and  the  infantry  cracking  away  constantly,  we  got  sleep 
in  small  quantity  all  night;  bullets  whizzing  over  us  con- 
stantly. Heavy  rain  from  5  to  8,  and  everything  wet 
except  the  far-in  corner  of  the  dugout,  where  we  mass 
our  things  to  keep  them  as  dry  as  we  may. 

Thursday.  May  6th,  1915. 

After  the  rain  a  bright  morning;  the  leaves  and  blos- 
soms are  coming  out.  We  ascribe  our  quietude  to  a  wel- 
come flock  of  allied  planes  which  are  over  this  morning. 
The  Germans  attacked  at  eleven,  and  again  at  six  in  the 
afternoon,  each  meaning  a  waking  up  of  heavy  artillery 
on  the  whole  frotlt.  In  the  evening  we  had  a  little  rain 
at  intervals,  but  it  was  light. 

Friday,  May  7th,  1915. 

A  bright  morning  early,  but  clouded  over  later.  The 
Germans  gave  it  to  us  very  heavily.  There  was  heavy 


Witb  tbe  (Buns 

fighting  to  the  south-east  of  us.     Two  attacks  or  threats, 
and  we  went  in  again. 

Saturday,  May  8th,  1915. 

For  the  last  three  days  we  have  been  under  British 
divisional  control,  and  supporting  our  own  men  who  have 
been  put  farther  to  the  left,  till  they  are  almost  in  front  of 
us.  It  is  an  added  comfort.  We  have  four  officers  out 
with  various  infantry  regiments  for  observation  and  co- 
operation; they  have  to  stick  it  in  trenches,  as  all  the 
houses  and  barns  are  burned.  The  whole  front  is  con- 
stantly ablaze  with  big  gunfire;  the  racket  never  ceases. 
We  have  now  to  do  most  of  the  work  for  our  left,  as  our 
line  appears  to  be  much  thinner  than  it  was.  A  German 
attack  followed  the  shelling  at  7;  we  were  fighting  hard 
till  12,  and  less  regularly  all  the  afternoon.  We  suffered 
much,  and  at  one  time  were  down  to  seven  guns.  Of  these 
two  were  smoking  at  every  joint,  and  the  levers  were  so 
hot  that  the  gunners  used  sacking  for  their  hands.  The 
pace  is  now  much  hotter,  and  the  needs  of  the  infantry  for 
fire  more  insistent.  The  guns  are  in  bad  shape  by  reason 
of  dirt,  injuries,  and  heat.  The  wind  fortunately  blows 
from  us,  so  there  is  no  gas,  but  the  attacks  are  still  very 
heavy.  Evening  brought  a  little  quiet,  but  very  disquiet- 
ing news  (which  afterwards  proved  untrue) ;  and  we  had 
to  face  a  possible  retirement.  You  may  imagine  our  state 
of  mind,  unable  to  get  anything  sure  in  the  uncertainty, 
except  that  we  should  stick  out  as  long  as  the  guns  would 
fire,  and  we  could  fire  them.  That  sort  of  night  brings  a 
man  down  to  his  "bare  skin, "  I  promise  you.  The  night 
was  very  cold,  and  not  a  cheerful  one. 

Sunday,  May  pth,  1915. 

At  4  we  were  ordered  to  get  ready  to  move,  and  the 
Adjutant  picked  out  new  retirement  positions;  but  a 
little  later  better  news  came,  and  the  daylight  and  sun 


tuttb  tbe  Guns 

revived  us  a  bit.  As  I  sat  in  my  dugout  a  little  white  and 
black  dog  with  tan  spots  bolted  in  over  the  parapet,  during 
heavy  firing,  and  going  to  the  farthest  corner  began  to  dig 
furiously.  Having  scraped  out  a  pathetic  little  hole  two 
inches  deep,  she  sat  down  and  shook,  looking  most  plain- 
tively at  me.  A  few  minutes  later,  her  owner  came  along, 
a  French  soldier.  Bissac  was  her  name,  but  she  would 
not  leave  me  at  the  time.  When  I  sat  down  a  little  later, 
she  stole  out  and  shyly  crawled  in  between  me  and  the 
wall;  she  stayed  by  me  all  day,  and  I  hope  got  later  on  to 
safe  quarters. 

Firing  kept  up  all  day.  In  thirty  hours  we  had  fired 
3600  rounds,  and  at  times  with  seven,  eight,  or  nine  guns; 
our  wire  cut  and  repaired  eighteen  times.  Orders  came 
to  move,  and  we  got  ready.  At  dusk  we  got  the  guns  out 
by  hand,  and  all  batteries  assembled  at  a  given  spot  in 
comparative  safety.  We  were  much  afraid  they  would 
open  on  us,  for  at  10  o'clock  they  gave  us  100  or  150 
rounds,  hitting  the  trench  parapet  again  and  again.  How- 
ever, we  were  up  the  road,  the  last  wagon  half  a  mile 
away  before  they  opened.  One  burst  near  me,  and  splat- 
tered some  pieces  around,  but  we  got  clear,  and  by  12 
were  out  of  the  usual  fire  zone.  Marched  all  night,  tired 
as  could  be,  but  happy  to  be  clear. 

I  was  glad  to  get  on  dear  old  Bonfire  again.  We  made 
about  sixteen  miles,  and  got  to  our  billets  at  dawn.  I 
had  three  or  four  hours'  sleep,  and  arose  to  a  peaceful 
breakfast.  We  shall  go  back  to  the  line  elsewhere  very 
soon,  but  it  is  a  present  relief,  and  the  next  place  is  sure 
to  be  better,  for  it  cannot  be  worse.  Much  of  this  nar- 
rative is  bald  and  plain,  but  it  tells  our  part  in  a  really 
great  battle.  I  have  only  had  hasty  notes  to  go  by;  in 
conversation  there  is  much  one  could  say  that  would  be 
of  greater  interest.  Heard  of  the  Lusitania  disaster  on 
our  road  out.  A  terrible  affair! 

[72] 


•QOlftb  tbe  (Suns 

Here  ends  the  account  of  his  part  in  this 
memorable  battle,  and  here  follow  some  general 
observations  upon  the  experience: 

NORTHERN  FRANCE,  May  roth,  1915. 

We  got  here  to  refit  and  rest  this  morning  at  4,  having 
marched  last  night  at  10.  The  general  impression  in  my 
mind  is  of  a  nightmare.  We  have  been  in  the  most  bitter 
of  fights.  For  seventeen  days  and  seventeen  nights  none 
of  us  have  had  our  clothes  off,  nor  our  boots  even,  except 
occasionally.  In  all  that  time  while  I  was  awake,  gunfire 
and  rifle  fire  never  ceased  for  sixty  seconds,  and  it  was 
sticking  to  our  utmost  by  a  weak  line  all  but  ready  to 
break,  knowing  nothing  of  what  was  going  on,  and  de- 
pressed by  reports  of  anxious  infantry.  The  men  and  the 
divisions  are  worthy  of  all  praise  that  can  be  given.  It 
did  not  end  in  four  days  when  many  of  our  infantry  were 
taken  out.  It  kept  on  at  fever  heat  till  yesterday. 

This,  of  course,  is  the  second  battle  of  Ypres,  or  the 
battle  of  the  Yser,  I  do  not  know  which.  At  one  time  we 
were  down  to  seven  guns,  but  those  guns  were  smoking 
at  every  joint,  the  gunners  using  cloth  to  handle  the 
breech  levers  because  of  the  heat.  We  had  three  batteries 
in  action  with  four  guns  added  from  the  other  units.  Our 
casualties  were  half  the  number  of  men  in  the  firing  line. 
The  horse  lines  and  the  wagon  lines  farther  back  suffered 
less,  but  the  Brigade  list  has  gone  far  higher  than  any 
artillery  normal.  I  know  one  brigade  R.A.  that  was  in 
the  Mons  retreat  and  had  about  the  same.  I  have  done 
what  fell  to  hand.  My  clothes,  boots,  kit,  and  dugout 
at  various  times  were  sadly  bloody.  Two  of  our  batteries 
are  reduced  to  two  officers  each.  We  have  had  constant 
accurate  shell-fire,  but  we  have  given  back  no  less.  And 
behind  it  all  was  the  constant  background  of  the  sights  of 

[73] 


lUith  tbe  Gnus 

the  dead,  the  wounded,  the  maimed,  and  a  terrible  anxiety 
lest  the  line  should  give  way. 

During  all  this  time,  we  have  been  behind  French  troops, 
and  only  helping  our  own  people  by  oblique  fire  when 
necessary.  Our  horses  have  suffered  heavily  too.  Bon- 
fire had  a  light  wound  from  a  piece  of  shell;  it  is  healing  and 
the  dear  old  fellow  is  very  fit.  Had  my  first  ride  for 
seventeen  days  last  night.  We  never  saw  horses  but  with 
the  wagons  bringing  up  the  ammunition.  When  fire  was 
hottest  they  had  to  come  two  miles  on  a  road  terribly 
swept,  and  they  did  it  magnificently.  But  how  tired  we 
are!  Weary  in  body  and  wearier  in  mind.  None  of  our 
men  went  off  their  heads  but  men  in  units  nearby  did — 
and  no  wonder. 

PRANCE.  May  I2th,  1915. 

I  am  glad  you  had  your  mind  at  rest  by  the  rumour  that 
we  were  in  reserve.  What  newspaper  work!  The  poor 
old  artillery  never  gets  any  mention,  and  the  whole  show 
is  the  infantry.  It  may  interest  you  to  note  on  your 
map  a  spot  on  the  west  bank  of  the  canal,  a  mile  and  a 
half  north  of  Ypres,  as  the  scene  of  our  labours.  There 
can  be  no  harm  in  saying  so,  now  that  we  are  out  of  it. 
The  unit  was  the  most  advanced  of  all  the  Allies'  guns  by 
a  good  deal  except  one  French  battery  which  stayed  in  a 
position  yet  more  advanced  for  two  days,  and  then  had 
to  be  taken  out.  I  think  it  may  be  said  that  we  saw  the 
show  from  the  soup  to  the  coffee. 

FRANCE.  May  i?th,  1915. 

The  farther  we  get  away  from  Ypres  the  more  we  learn 
of  the  enormous  power  the  Germans  put  in  to  push  us 
over.  Lord  only  knows  how  many  men  they  had,  and 
how  many  they  lost.  I  wish  I  could  embody  on  paper 
some  of  the  varied  sensations  of  that  seventeen  days. 

(74  I 


lUitb  tbe  <3un0 

All  the  gunners  down  this  way  passed  us  all  sorts  of  kudos 
over  it.  Our  guns — those  behind  us,  from  which  we  had 
to  dodge  occasional  prematures — have  a  peculiar  bang- 
sound  added  to  the  sharp  crack  of  discharge.  The  French 
75  has  a  sharp  wood-block-chop  sound,  and  the  shell  goes 
over  with  a  peculiar  whine — not  unlike  a  cat,  but  begin- 
ning with  n — thus, — n-eouw.  The  big  fellows,  3000 
yards  or  more  behind,  sounded  exactly  like  our  own,  but 
the  flash  came  three  or  four  seconds  before  the  sound. 
Of  the  German  shells — the  field  guns  come  with  a  great 
velocity — no  warning — just  whizz-bang;  white  smoke, 
nearly  always  air  bursts.  The  next  size,  probably  5 
inch  howitzers,  have  a  perceptible  time  of  approach,  an 
increasing  whine,  and  a  great  burst  on  the  percussion — 
dirt  in  all  directions.  And  even  if  a  shell  hit  on  the  front 
of  the  canal  bank,  and  one  were  on  the  back  of  the  bank, 
five,  eight,  or  ten  seconds  later  one  would  hear  a  belated 
whirr,  and  curved  pieces  of  shell  would  light — probably 
parabolic  curves  or  boomerangs.  These  shells  have  a 
great  back  kick;  from  the  field  gun  shrapnel  we  got  noth- 
ing behind  the  shell — all  the  pieces  go  forward.  Prom  the 
howitzers,  the  danger  is  almost  as  great  behind  as  in 
front  if  they  burst  on  percussion.  Then  the  large  shrapnel 
— air-burst — have  a  double  explosion,  as  if  a  giant  shook 
a  wet  sail  for  two  flaps;  first  a  dark  green  burst  of  smoke; 
then  a  lighter  yellow  burst  goes  out  from  the  centre, 
forwards.  I  do  not  understand  the  why  of  it. 

Then  the  ro-inch  shells:  a  deliberate  whirring  course — 
a  deafening  explosion — black  smoke,  and  earth  70  or  80 
feet  in  the  air.  These  always  burst  on  percussion.  The 
constant  noise  of  our  own  guns  is  really  worse  on  the  nerves 
than  the  shell;  there  is  the  deafening  noise,  and  the  con- 
stant whirr  of  shells  going  overhead.  The  earth  shakes 
with  every  nearby  gun  and  every  close  shell.  I  think  I 
may  safely  enclose  a  cross  section  of  our  position.  The 

t75l 


lUitb  tbe  (Buns 

left  is  the  front:  a  slope  down  of  20  feet  in  100  yards  to 
the  canal,  a  high  row  of  trees  on  each  bank,  then  a  short 
40  yards  slope  up  to  the  summit  of  the  trench,  where  the 
brain  of  the  outfit  was;  then  a  telephone  wired  slope,  and 
on  the  sharp  slope,  the  dugouts,  including  my  own.  The 
nondescript  affair  on  the  low  slope  is  the  gun  position, 
behind  it  the  men's  shelter  pits.  Behind  my  dugout  was 
a  rapid  small  stream,  on  its  far  bank  a  row  of  pollard 
willows,  then  30  yards  of  field,  then  a  road  with  two  paral- 
lel rows  of  high  trees.  Behind  this  again,  several  hundred 
yards  of  fields  to  cross  before  the  main  gun  positions  are 
reached. 

More  often  fire  came  from  three  quarters  left,  and  be- 
cause our  ridge  died  away  there  was  a  low  spot  over 
which  they  could  come  pretty  dangerously.  The  road 
thirty  yards  behind  us  was  a  nightmare  to  me.  I  saw  all 
the  tragedies  of  war  enacted  there.  A  wagon,  or  a  bunch 
of  horses,  or  a  stray  man,  or  a  couple  of  men,  would  get 
there  just  in  time  for  a  shell.  One  would  see  the  absolute 
knock-out,  and  the  obviously  lightly  wounded  crawling 
off  on  hands  and  knees;  or  worse  yet,  at  night,  one  would 
hear  the  tragedy — "that  horse  scream" — or  the  man's 
moan.  All  our  own  wagons  had  to  come  there  (one  every 
half  hour  in  smart  action),  be  emptied,  and  the  ammuni- 
tion carried  over  by  hand.  Do  you  wonder  that  the  road 
got  on  our  nerves?  On  this  road,  too,  was  the  house 
where  we  took  our  meals.  It  was  hit  several  times,  win- 
dows all  blown  in  by  nearby  shells,  but  one  end  remained 
for  us. 

Seventeen  days  of  Hades!  At  the  end  of  the  first  day 
if  anyone  had  told  us  we  had  to  spend  seventeen  days 
there,  we  would  have  folded  our  hands  and  said  it  could 
not  be  done.  On  the  fifteenth  day  we  got  orders  to  go 
out,  but  that  was  countermanded  in  two  hours.  To  the 
last  we  could  scarcely  believe  we  were  actually  to  get  out. 

[76] 


Facsimile  of  a  sketch  by  John  McCrae  on  the  back  of  a  card 


TWUtb  tbe  Guns 

The  real  audacity  of  the  position  was  its  safety;  the 
Germans  knew  to  a  foot  where  we  were.  I  think  I  told 
you  of  some  of  the  "you  must  stick  it  out"  messages  we 
got  from  our  [French]  General, — they  put  it  up  to  us. 
It  is  a  wonder  to  me  that  we  slept  when,  and  how,  we  did. 
If  we  had  not  slept  and  eaten  as  well  as  possible  we  could 
not  have  lasted.  And  while  we  were  doing  this,  the 
London  office  of  a  Canadian  newspaper  cabled  home 
"Canadian  Artillery  in  reserve."  Such  is  fame! 

Thursday,  May  27th,  1915. 

Day  cloudy  and  chilly.  We  wore  our  greatcoats  most 
of  the  afternoon,  and  looked  for  bits  of  sunlight  to  get  warm. 
About  two  o'clock  the  heavy  guns  gave  us  a  regular  "black- 
smithing."  Every  time  we  fired  we  drew  a  perfect  hor- 
net's nest  about  our  heads.  While  attending  to  a  casualty, 
a  shell  broke  through  both  sides  of  the  trench,  front  and 
back,  about  twelve  feet  away.  The  zigzag  of  the  trench 
was  between  it  and  us,  and  we  escaped.  From  my  bunk 
the  moon  looks  down  at  me,  and  the  wind  whistles  along 
the  trench  like  a  corridor.  As  the  trenches  run  in  all 
directions  they  catch  the  wind  however  it  blows,  so  one  is 
always  sure  of  a  good  draught.  We  have  not  had  our 
clothes  off  since  last  Saturday,  and  there  is  no  near  pros- 
pect of  getting  them  off. 

Friday,  May  28th,  1915. 

Warmer  this  morning  and  sunny,  a  quiet  morning,  as 
far  as  we  were  concerned.  One  battery  fired  twenty 
rounds  and  the  rest  "sat  tight."  Newspapers  which 
arrive  show  that  up  to  May  7th,  the  Canadian  public  has 
made  no  guess  at  the  extent  of  the  battle  of  Ypres.  The 
Canadian  papers  seem  to  have  lost  interest  in  it  after  the 
first  four  days;  this  regardless  of  the  fact  that  the  artil- 
lery, numerically  a  quarter  of  the  division,  was  in  all  the 

[77] 


Mitb  tbe  (Buna 

time.  One  correspondent  writes  from  the  Canadian  rest 
camp,  and  never  mentions  Ypres.  Others  say  they  hear 
heavy  bombarding  which  appears  to  come  from  Armen- 
tieres. 

A  few  strokes  will  complete  the  picture: 

Wednesday,  April  29th,  1915. 

This  morning  is  the  sixth  day  of  this  fight;  it  has  been 
constant,  except  that  we  got  good  chance  to  sleep  for  the 
last  two  nights.  Our  men  have  fought  beyond  praise. 
Canadian  soldiers  have  set  a  standard  for  themselves 
which  will  keep  posterity  busy  to  surpass.  And  the  War 
Office  published  that  the  4.  i  guns  captured  were  Canadian. 
They  were  not:  the  division  has  not  lost  a  gun  so  far  by 
capture.  We  will  make  a  good  job  of  it — if  we  can. 

May  ist,   1915. 

This  is  the  ninth  day  that  we  have  stuck  to  the  ridge, 
and  the  batteries  have  fought  with  a  steadiness  which  is 
beyond  all  praise.  If  I  could  say  what  our  casualties  in 
men,  guns,  and  horses  were,  you  would  see  at  a  glance  it 
has  been  a  hot  corner;  but  we  have  given  better  than  we 
got,  for  the  German  casualties  from  this  front  have  been 
largely  from  artillery,  except  for  the  French  attack  of 
yesterday  and  the  day  before,  when  they  advanced  appre- 
ciably on  our  left.  The  front,  however,  just  here  remains 
where  it  was,  and  the  artillery  fire  is  very  heavy — I  think 
as  heavy  here  as  on  any  part  of  the  line,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  certain  cross-roads  which  are  the  particular  object 
of  fire.  The  first  four  days  the  anxiety  was  wearing,  for 
we  did  not  know  at  what  minute  the  German  army  corps 
would  come  for  us.  We  lie  out  in  support  of  the  French 
troops  entirely,  and  are  working  with  them.  Since  that 
time  evidently  great  reinforcements  have  come  in,  and 

(781 


Witb  tbe  (Buns 

now  we  have  a  most  formidable  force  of  artillery  to  turn 
on  them. 

Fortunately  the  weather  has  been  good;  the  days  are 
hot  and  summerlike.  Yesterday  in  the  press  of  bad  smells 
I  got  a  whiff  of  a  hedgerow  in  bloom.  The  birds  perch 
on  the  trees  over  our  heads  and  twitter  away  as  if  there 
was  nothing  to  worry  about.  Bonfire  is  still  well.  I 
do  hope  he  gets  through  all  right. 

FLANDERS,  March  aoth,  1915. 

The  Brigade  is  actually  in  twelve  different  places.  The 
ammunition  column  and  the  horse  and  wagon  lines  are 
back,  and  my  corporal  visits  them  every  day.  I  attend 
the  gun  lines;  any  casualty  is  reported  by  telephone,  and 
I  go  to  it.  The  wounded  and  sick  stay  where  they  are  till 
dark,  when  the  field  ambulances  go  over  certain  grounds 
and  collect.  A  good  deal  of  suffering  is  entailed  by  the 
delay  till  night,  but  it  is  useless  for  vehicles  to  go  on  the 
roads  within  1500  yards  of  the  trenches.  They  are  willing 
enough  to  go.  Most  of  the  trench  injuries  are  of  the  head, 
and  therefore  there  is  a  high  proportion  of  killed  in  the 
daily  warfare  as  opposed  to  an  attack.  Our  Canadian 
plots  fill  up  rapidly. 

And  here  is  one  last  note  to  his  mother: 

On  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Ypres  I  was  indebted  to  you 
for  a  letter  which  said  "take  good  care  of  my  son  Jack, 
but  I  would  not  have  you  unmindful  that,  sometimes, 
when  we  save  we  lose."  I  have  that  last  happy  phrase  to 
thank.  Often  when  I  had  to  go  out  over  the  areas  that 
were  being  shelled,  it  came  into  my  mind.  I  would 
shoulder  the  box,  and  "go  to  it." 

At  this  time  the  Canadian  division  was  mov- 
ing south  to  take  its  share  in  the  events  that 
[791 


Mttb  tbe  (Buns 

happened    in    the   La   Bassee  sector.     Here  is 
the  record: 

Tuesday,  June  ist,  1915. 
iH  miles  northeast  of  Festubert,  near  La  Bassee. 

Last  night  a  15  pr.  and  a  4-inch  howitzer  fired  at  inter- 
vals of  five  minutes  from  8  till  4;  most  of  them  within 
500  or  600  yards — a  very  tiresome  procedure;  much  of  it 
is  on  registered  roads.  In  the  morning  I  walked  out  to 
Le  Touret  to  the  wagon  lines,  got  Bonfire,  and  rode  to 
the  headquarters  at  Vendin-lez-Bethune,  a  little  village 
a  mile  past  Bethune.  Left  the  horse  at  the  lines  and 
walked  back  again.  An  unfortunate  shell  in  the  ist  killed 
a  sergeant  and  wounded  two  men;  thanks  to  the  strong 
emplacements  the  rest  of  the  crew  escaped.  In  the 
evening  went  around  the  batteries  and  said  good-bye. 
We  stood  by  while  they  laid  away  the  sergeant  who  was 
killed.  Kind  hands  have  made  two  pathetic  little  wreaths 
of  roses;  the  grave  under  an  apple-tree,  and  the  moon 
rising  over  the  horizon;  a  siege-lamp  held  for  the  book. 
Of  the  last  41  days  the  guns  have  been  in  action  33. 
Captain  Lockhart,  late  with  Fort  Garry  Horse,  arrived  to 
relieve  me.  I  handed  over,  came  up  to  the  horse  lines, 
and  slept  in  a  covered  wagon  in  a  courtyard.  We  were  all 
sorry  to  part — the  four  of  us  have  been  very  intimate  and 
had  agreed  perfectly — and  friendships  under  these  cir- 
cumstances are  apt  to  be  the  real  thing  I  am  sorry  to 
leave  them  in  such  a  hot  corner,  but  cannot  choose  and 
must  obey  orders.  It  is  a  great  relief  from  strain,  I  must 
admit,  to  be  out,  but  I  could  wish  that  they  all  were. 

This  phase  of  the  war  lasted  two  months  pre- 
cisely, and  to  John  McCrae  it  must  have  seemed 
a  lifetime  since  he  went  into   this   memorable 
action.     The  events  preceding  the  second  battle 
[80] 


IClitb  tbe  Guns 

of  Ypres  received  scant  mention  in  his  letters; 
but  one  remains,  which  brings  into  relief  one  of 
the  many  moves  of  that  tumultuous  time. 

April  ist,   1915. 

We  moved  out  in  the  late  afternoon,  getting  on  the  road 
a  little  after  dark.  Such  a  move  is  not  unattended  by 
danger,  for  to  bring  horses  and  limbers  down  the  roads  in 
the  shell  zone  in  daylight  renders  them  liable  to  observa- 
tion, aerial  or  otherwise.  More  than  that,  the  roads  are 
now  beginning  to  be  dusty,  and  at  all  times  there  is  the 
noise  which  carries  far.  The  roads  are  nearly  all  registered 
in  their  battery  books,  so  if  they  suspect  a  move,  it  is 
the  natural  thing  to  loose  off  a  few  rounds.  However,  our 
anxiety  was  not  borne  out,  and  we  got  out  of  the  danger 
zone  by  8.30 — a  not  too  long  march  in  the  dark,  and  then 
for  the  last  of  the  march  a  glorious  full  moon.  The  houses 
everywhere  are  as  dark  as  possible,  and  on  the  roads 
noises  but  no  lights.  One  goes  on  by  the  long  rows  of 
trees  that  are  so  numerous  in  this  country,  on  cobble- 
stones and  country  roads,  watching  one's  horses'  ears 
wagging,  and  seeing  not  much  else.  Our  maps  are  well 
studied  before  we  start,  and  this  time  we  are  not  far  out 
of  familiar  territory.  We  got  to  our  new  billet  about  10 
— quite  a  good  farmhouse;  and  almost  at  once  one  feels 
the  relief  of  the  strain  of  being  in  the  shell  zone.  I  cannot 
say  I  had  noticed  it  when  there;  but  one  is  distinctly 
relieved  when  out  of  it. 

Such,  then,  was  the  life  in  Flanders  fields  in 
which  the  verse  was  born.  This  is  no  mere 
surmise.  There  is  a  letter  from  Major-General 
E.  W.  B.  Morrison,  C.B.,  C.M.G.,  D.S.O.,  who 
commanded  the  Brigade  at  the  time,  which  is 
6  [81] 


Iditb  tbe  Guns 

quite  explicit.  "This  poem,"  General  Morrison 
writes,  "was  literally  born  of  fire  and  blood 
during  the  hottest  phase  of  the  second  battle 
of  Ypres.  My  headquarters  were  in  a  trench 
on  the  top  of  the  bank  of  the  Ypres  Canal, 
and  John  had  his  dressing  station  in  a  hole 
dug  in  the  foot  of  the  bank.  During  periods 
in  the  battle  men  who  were  shot  actually 
rolled  down  the  bank  into  his  dressing  station. 
Along  from  us  a  few  hundred  yards  was  the 
headquarters  of  a  regiment,  and  many  times 
during  the  sixteen  days  of  battle,  he  and  I 
watched  them  burying  their  dead  whenever 
there  was  a  lull.  Thus  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
grew  into  a  good-sized  cemetery.  Just  as  he 
describes,  we  often  heard  in  the  mornings  the 
larks  singing  high  in  the  air,  between  the  crash 
of  the  shell  and  the  reports  of  the  guns  in  the 
battery  just  beside  us.  I  have  a  letter  from 
him  in  which  he  mentions  having  written  the 
poem  to  pass  away  the  time  between  the  arrival 
of  batches  of  wounded,  and  partly  as  an  experi- 
ment with  several  varieties  of  poetic  metre.  I 
have  a  sketch  of  the  scene,  taken  at  the  time, 
including  his  dressing  station;  and  during  our 
operations  at  Passchendaele  last  November,  I 
found  time  to  make  a  sketch  of  the  scene  of  the 
crosses,  row  on  row,  from  which  he  derived  his 
inspiration." 

[82! 


TTbe  Brano  of  Mar 

The  last  letter  from  the  Front  is  dated  June 
ist,  1915.  Upon  that  day  he  was  posted  to  No. 
3  General  Hospital  at  Boulogne,  and  placed  in 
charge  of  medicine  with  the  rank  of  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  as  of  date  lyth  April,  1915.  Here  he 
remained  until  the  day  of  his  death  on  January 
28th,  1918. 

Ill 

There  are  men  who  pass  through  such  scenes 
unmoved.  If  they  have  eyes,  they  do  not  see; 
and  ears,  they  do  not  hear.  But  John  McCrae 
was  profoundly  moved,  and  bore  in  his  body 
until  the  end  the  signs  of  his  experience.  Before 
taking  up  his  new  duties  he  made  a  visit  to  the 
hospitals  in  Paris  to  see  if  there  was  any  new 
thing  that  might  be  learned.  A  Nursing  Sister 
in  the  American  Ambulance  at  Neuilly-sur-Seine 
met  him  in  the  wards.  Although  she  had  known 
him  for  fifteen  years  she  did  not  recognize  him, — 
he  appeared  to  her  so  old,  so  worn,  his  face  lined 
and  ashen  grey  in  colour,  his  expression  dull,  his 
action  slow  and  heavy. 

To  those  who  have  never  seen  John  McCrae 
since  he  left  Canada  this  change  in  his  appear- 
ance will  seem  incredible.  He  was  of  the  Eck- 
fords,  and  the  Eckford  men  were  "bonnie  men," 
men  with  rosy  cheeks.  It  was  a  year  before  I 
met  him  again,  and  he  had  not  yet  recovered 
[83] 


TTbe  Branfc  of  TKIlar 

from  the  strain.  Although  he  was  upwards  of 
forty  years  of  age  when  he  left  Canada  he  had 
always  retained  an  appearance  of  extreme  youth- 
fulness.  He  frequented  the  company  of  men 
much  younger  than  himself,  and  their  youth 
was  imputed  to  him.  His  frame  was  tall  and 
well  knit,  and  he  showed  alertness  in  every 
move.  He  would  arise  from  the  chair  with 
every  muscle  in  action,  and  walk  forth  as  if  he 
were  about  to  dance. 

The  first  time  I  saw  him  he  was  doing  an 
autopsy  at  the  Montreal  General  Hospital  upon 
the  body  of  a  child  who  had  died  under  my  care. 
This  must  have  been  in  the  year  1900,  and  the 
impression  of  boyishness  remained  until  I  met 
him  in  France  sixteen  years  later.  His  manner 
of  dress  did  much  to  produce  this  illusion.  When 
he  was  a  student  in  London  he  employed  a 
tailor  in  Queen  Victoria  Street  to  make  his 
clothes;  but  with  advancing  years  he  neglected 
to  have  new  measurements  taken  or  to  alter 
the  pattern  of  his  cloth.  To  obtain  a  new  suit 
was  merely  to  write  a  letter,  and  he  was  always 
economical  of  time.  In  those  days  jackets 
were  cut  short,  and  he  adhered  to  the  fashion 
with  persistent  care. 

This  appearance  of  youth  at  times  caused 
chagrin  to  those  patients  who  had  heard  of  his 
fame  as  a  physician,  and  called  upon  him  for 
[84] 


t£be  JBranO  of  Mar 

the  first  time.  In  the  Royal  Victoria  Hospital, 
after  he  had  been  appointed  physician,  he  en- 
tered the  wards  and  asked  a  nurse  to  fetch  a 
screen  so  that  he  might  examine  a  patient  in 
privacy. 

"Students  are  not  allowed  to  use  screens,"  the 
young  woman  warned  him  with  some  asperity 
in  her  voice. 

If  I  were  asked  to  state  briefly  the  impression 
which  remains  with  me  most  firmly,  I  should 
say  it  was  one  of  continuous  laughter.  That  is 
not  true,  of  course,  for  in  repose  his  face  was 
heavy,  his  countenance  more  than  ruddy;  it 
was  even  of  a  "choleric"  cast,  and  at  times 
almost  livid,  especially  when  he  was  recovering 
from  one  of  those  attacks  of  asthma  from  which 
he  habitually  suffered.  But  his  smile  was  his 
own,  and  it  was  ineffable.  It  filled  the  eyes, 
and  illumined  the  face.  It  was  the  smile  of 
sheer  fun,  of  pure  gaiety,  of  sincere  playfulness, 
innocent  of  irony;  with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm — 
never.  When  he  allowed  himself  to  speak  of 
meanness  in  the  profession,  of  dishonesty  in 
men,  of  evil  in  the  world,  his  face  became  for- 
midable. The  glow  of  his  countenance  deep- 
ened; his  words  were  bitter,  and  the  tones 
harsh.  But  the  indignation  would  not  last. 
The  smile  would  come  back.  The  effect  was 
spoiled.  Everyone  laughed  with  him. 
[85] 


ttbe  JSrano  of  Mar 

After  his  experience  at  the  front  the  old  gaiety 
never  returned.  There  were  moments  of  irasci- 
bility and  moods  of  irritation.  The  desire  for 
solitude  grew  upon  him,  and  with  Bonfire  and 
Bonneau  he  would  go  apart  for  long  afternoons 
far  afield  by  the  roads  and  lanes  about  Boulogne. 
The  truth  is:  he  felt  that  he  and  all  had  failed, 
and  that  the  torch  was  thrown  from  failing 
hands.  We  have  heard  much  of  the  suffering, 
the  misery,  the  cold,  the  wet,  the  gloom  of  those 
first  three  winters;  but  no  tongue  has  yet  ut- 
tered the  inner  misery  of  heart  that  was  bred 
of  those  three  years  of  failure  to  break  the 
enemy's  force. 

He  was  not  alone  in  this  shadow  of  deep  dark- 
ness. Givenchy,  Festubert,  Neuve-Chapelle, 
Ypres,  Hooge,  the  Somme — to  mention  alone 
the  battles  in  which  up  to  that  time  the  Cana- 
dian Corps  had  been  engaged — all  ended  in 
failure;  and  to  a  sensitive  and  foreboding  mind 
there  were  sounds  and  signs  that  it  would  be 
given  to  this  generation  to  hear  the  pillars  and 
fabric  of  Empire  come  crashing  into  the  abysm 
of  chaos.  He  was  not  at  the  Somme  in  that 
October  of  1916,  but  those  who  returned  up 
north  with  the  remnants  of  their  division  from 
that  place  of  slaughter  will  remember  that, 
having  done  all  men  could  do,  they  felt  like 
deserters  because  they  had  not  left  their  poor 

[86] 


Goitui  to  tbe  t'dars 

bodies  dead  upon  the  field  along  with  friends 
of  a  lifetime,  comrades  of  a  campaign.  This 
is  no  mere  matter  of  surmise.  The  last  day  I 
spent  with  him  we  talked  of  those  things  in  his 
tent,  and  I  testify  that  it  is  true. 


IV 


John  McCrae  went  to  the  war  without  illu- 
sions. At  first,  like  many  others  of  his  age,  he 
did  not  "think  of  enlisting,"  although  "his 
services  are  at  the  disposal  of  the  Country  if  it 
needs  them." 

In  July,  1914,  he  was  at  work  upon  the  second 
edition  of  the  Text-Book  of  Pathology  by  Adami 
and  McCrae,  published  by  Messrs.  Lea  and 
Febiger,  and  he  had  gone  to  Philadelphia  to 
read  the  proofs.  He  took  them  to  Atlantic 
City  where  he  could  "sit  out  on  the  sand,  and 
get  sunshine  and  oxygen,  and  work  all  at  once." 

It  was  a  laborious  task,  passing  eighty  to  a 
hundred  pages  of  highly  technical  print  each 
day.  Then  there  was  the  index,  between  six 
and  seven  thousand  items.  "  I  have,"  so  he 
writes,  "to  change  every  item  in  the  old  index 
and  add  others.  I  have  a  pile  of  pages,  826 
in  all.  I  look  at  the  index,  find  the  old  page 
among  the  826,  and  then  change  the  number. 
This  about  7000  times,  so  you  may  guess  the 
[87) 


Going  to  tbe  tUars 

drudgery."  On  July  i5th,  the  work  was  finished, 
registered,  and  entrusted  to  the  mail  with  a  special 
delivery  stamp.  The  next  day  he  wrote  the 
preface,  "which  really  finished  the  job."  In 
very  truth  his  scientific  work  was  done. 

It  was  now  midsummer.  The  weather  was 
hot.  He  returned  to  Montreal.  Practice  was 
dull.  He  was  considering  a  voyage  to  Havre 
and  "a  little  trip  with  Dr.  Adami"  when  he 
arrived.  On  July  29th,  he  left  Canada  "for 
better  or  worse.  With  the  world  so  disturbed," 
he  records,  "  I  would  gladly  have  stayed  more 
in  touch  with  events,  but  I  dare  say  one  is  just 
as  happy  away  from  the  hundred  conflicting 
reports."  The  ship  was  the  Scotian  of  the  Allan 
Line,  and  he  "shared  a  comfortable  cabin  with 
a  professor  of  Greek,"  who  was  at  the  University 
in  his  own  time. 

For  one  inland  born,  he  had  a  keen  curiosity 
about  ships  and  the  sea.  There  is  a  letter  writ- 
ten when  he  was  thirteen  years  of  age  in  which 
he  gives  an  account  of  a  visit  to  a  naval  exhibi- 
tion in  London.  He  describes  the  models 
which  he  saw,  and  gives  an  elaborate  table  of 
names,  dimensions,  and  tonnage.  He  could 
identify  the  house  flags  and  funnels  of  all  the 
principal  liners;  he  could  follow  a  ship  through 
all  her  vicissitudes  and  change  of  ownership. 
When  he  found  himself  in  a  seaport  town  his 

[88] 


(Being  to  tbe  Mars 

first  business  was  to  visit  the  water  front  and 
take  knowledge  of  the  vessels  that  lay  in  the 
stream  or  by  the  docks.  One  voyage  he  made 
to  England  was  in  a  cargo  ship.  With  his 
passion  for  work  he  took  on  the  duties  of  sur- 
geon, and  amazed  the  skipper  with  a  revela- 
tion of  the  new  technique  in  operations  which 
he  himself  had  been  accustomed  to  perform  by 
the  light  of  experience  alone. 

On  the  present  and  more  luxurious  voyage, 
he  remarks  that  the  decks  were  roomy,  the 
ship  seven  years  old,  and  capable  of  fifteen 
knots  an  hour,  the  passengers  pleasant,  and 
including  a  large  number  of  French.  All  now 
know  only  too  well  the  nature  of  the  business 
which  sent  those  ardent  spirits  flocking  home  to 
their  native  land. 

Forty-eight  hours  were  lost  in  fog.  The 
weather  was  too  thick  for  making  the  Straits, 
and  the  Scoiian  proceeded  by  Cape  Race  on  her 
way  to  Havre.  Under  date  of  August  5-6  the 
first  reference  to  the  war  appears:  "All  is  excite- 
ment; the  ship  runs  without  lights.  Surely 
the  German  kaiser  has  his  head  in  the  noose  at 
last:  it  will  be  a  terrible  war,  and  the  finish  of 
one  or  the  other.  I  am  afraid  my  holiday  trip 
is  knocked  galley  west;  but  we  shall  see."  The 
voyage  continues.  A  "hundred  miles  from 
Moville  we  turned  back,  and  headed  South  for 


<5ofn0  to  tbe  TKHars 

Queenstown;  thence  to  the  Channel;  put  in  at 
Portland;  a  squadron  of  battleships;  arrived 
here  this  morning." 

The  problem  presented  itself  to  him  as  to 
many  another.  The  decision  was  made.  To 
go  back  to  America  was  to  go  back  from  the 
war.  Here  are  the  words:  "It  seems  quite  im- 
possible to  return,  and  I  do  not  think  I  should 
try.  I  would  not  feel  quite  comfortable  over 
it.  I  am  cabling  to  Morrison  at  Ottawa,  that 
I  am  available  either  as  combatant  or  medical 
if  they  need  me.  I  do  not  go  to  it  very  light- 
heartedly,  but  I  think  it  is  up  to  me." 

It  was  not  so  easy  in  those  days  to  get  to  the 
war,  as  he  and  many  others  were  soon  to  discover. 
There  was  in  Canada  at  the  time  a  small  per- 
manent force  of  3000  men,  a  military  college, 
a  Headquarters  staff,  and  divisional  staff  for 
the  various  districts  into  which  the  country 
was  divided.  In  addition  there  was  a  body  of 
militia  with  a  strength  of  about  60,000  officers 
and  other  ranks.  Annual  camps  were  formed 
at  which  all  arms  of  the  service  were  represented, 
and  the  whole  was  a  very  good  imitation  of 
service  conditions.  Complete  plans  for  mobiliza- 
tion were  in  existence,  by  which  a  certain  quota, 
according  to  the  establishment  required,  could 
be  detailed  from  each  district.  But  upon  the 
outbreak  of  war  the  operations  were  taken 
[90] 


to  tbe  Wars 


in  hand  by  a  Minister  of  Militia  who  assumed 
in  his  own  person  all  those  duties  usually  as- 
signed to  the  staff.  He  called  to  his  assistance 
certain  business  and  political  associates,  with 
the  result  that  volunteers  who  followed  military 
methods  did  not  get  very  far. 

Accordingly  we  find  it  written  in  John  Mc- 
Crae's  diary  from  London:  "Nothing  doing 
here.  I  have  yet  no  word  from  the  Depart- 
ment at  Ottawa,  but  I  try  to  be  philosophical 
until  I  hear  from  Morrison.  If  they  want  me 
for  the  Canadian  forces,  I  could  use  my  old 
Sam  Browne  belt,  sword,  and  saddle  if  it  is  yet 
extant.  At  times  I  wish  I  could  go  home  with 
a  clear  conscience." 

He  sailed  for  Canada  in  the  Calgarian  on 
August  28th,  having  received  a  cablegram  from 
Colonel  Morrison,  that  he  had  been  provision- 
ally appointed  surgeon  to  the  ist  Brigade 
Artillery.  The  night  he  arrived  in  Montreal  I 
dined  with  him  at  the  University  Club,  and  he 
was  aglow  with  enthusiasm  over  this  new  adven- 
ture. He  remained  in  Montreal  for  a  few  days, 
and  on  September  gth,  joined  the  unit  to  which 
he  was  attached  as  medical  officer.  Before  leav- 
ing Montreal  he  wrote  to  his  sister  Geills: 

"Out  on  the  awful  old  trail  again!  And  with 
very  mixed  feelings,  but  some  determination. 
I  am  off  to  Val-cartier  to-night.  I  was  really 
[91] 


Soutb  Bfrica 

afraid  to  go  home,  for  I  feared  it  would  only 
be  harrowing  for  Mater,  and  I  think  she  agrees. 
We  can  hope  for  happier  times.  Everyone  most 
kind  and  helpful:  my  going  does  not  seem  to 
surprise  anyone.  I  know  you  will  understand 
it  is  hard  to  go  home,  and  perhaps  easier  for 
us  all  that  I  do  not.  I  am  in  good  hope  of 
coming  back  soon  and  safely:  that,  I  am  glad 
to  say,  is  in  other  and  better  hands  than  ours." 

V 

In  the  Autumn  of  1914,  after  John  McCrae 
had  gone  over-seas,  I  was  in  a  warehouse  in 
Montreal,  in  which  one  might  find  an  old  piece 
of  mahogany  wood.  His  boxes  were  there  in 
storage,  with  his  name  plainly  printed  upon 
them.  The  storeman,  observing  my  interest, 
remarked:  "This  Doctor  McCrae  cannot  be  do- 
ing much  business;  he  is  always  going  to  the 
wars."  The  remark  was  profoundly  significant 
of  the  state  of  mind  upon  the  subject  of  war 
which  prevailed  at  the  time  in  Canada  in  more 
intelligent  persons.  To  this  storeman  war  merely 
meant  that  the  less  usefully  employed  members 
of  the  community  sent  their  boxes  to  him  for 
safe-keeping  until  their  return.  War  was  a 
great  holiday  from  work;  and  he  had  a  vague 
remembrance  that  some  fifteen  years  before 
[92] 


soutb  Hfrica 

this  customer  had  required  of  him  a  similar 
service  when  the  South  African  war  broke  out. 

Either  in  esse  or  in  posse  John  McCrae  had 
"always  been  going  to  the  wars."  At  fourteen 
years  of  age  he  joined  the  Guelph  Highland 
Cadets,  and  rose  to  the  rank  of  ist  Lieutenant. 
As  his  size  and  strength  increased  he  reverted 
to  the  ranks  and  transferred  to  the  Artillery. 
In  due  time  he  rose  from  gunner  to  major.  The 
formal  date  of  his  "Gazette"  is  17-3-02  as 
they  write  it  in  the  army;  but  he  earned  his 
rank  in  South  Africa. 

War  was  the  burden  of  his  thought;  war  and 
death  the  theme  of  his  verse.  At  the  age  of 
thirteen  we  find  him  at  a  gallery  in  Nottingham, 
writing  this  note:  "I  saw  the  picture  of  the 
artillery  going  over  the  trenches  at  Tel-el- Kebir. 
It  is  a  good  picture;  but  there  are  four  teams 
on  the  guns.  Perhaps  an  extra  one  had  to  be 
put  on."  If  his  nomenclature  was  not  correct, 
the  observation  of  the  young  artillerist  was 
exact.  Such  excesses  were  not  permitted  in  his 
father's  battery  in  Guelph,  Ontario.  During 
this  same  visit  his  curiosity  led  him  into  the 
House  of  Lords1,  and  the  sum  of  his  written 
observation  is,  "When  someone  is  speaking  no 
one  seems  to  listen  at  all." 

His  mother  I  never  knew.  Canada  is  a  large 
place.  With  his  father  I  had  four  hours'  talk 
[931 


Soutb  Hf rica 

from  seven  to  eleven  one  June  evening  in  Lon- 
don in  1917.  At  the  time  I  was  on  leave  from 
France  to  give  the  Cavendish  Lecture,  a  task 
which  demanded  some  thought;  and  after  two 
years  in  the  army  it  was  a  curious  sensation- 
watching  one's  mind  at  work  again.  The  day 
was  Sunday.  I  had  walked  down  to  the  river 
to  watch  the  flowing  tide.  To  one  brought  up 
in  a  country  of  streams  and  a  moving  sea  the 
curse  of  Flanders  is  her  stagnant  waters.  It  is 
little  wonder  the  exiles  from  the  Judaean  hill- 
sides wept  beside  the  slimy  River. 

The  Thames  by  evening  in  June,  memories 
that  reached  from  Tacitus  to  Wordsworth,  the 
embrasure  that  extends  in  front  of  the  Egyptian 
obelisk  for  a  standing  place,  and  some  children 
"  swimming  a  dog" ; — that  was  the  scene  and  cir- 
cumstance of  my  first  meeting  with  his  father. 
A  man  of  middle  age  was  standing  by.  He 
wore  the  flashings  of  a  Lieutenant-Colonel  and 
for  badges  the  Artillery  grenades.  He  seemed 
a  friendly  man;  and  under  the  influence  of  the 
moment,  which  he  also  surely  felt,  I  spoke  to 
him. 

"A  fine  river," — That  was  a  safe  remark. 

"  But  I  know  a  finer." 

"Pharpar  and  Abana?"  I  put  the  stranger 
to  the  test. 

"No,"  he  said.  "The  St.  Lawrence  is  not 
[94l 


Soutb  Hfrtca 

of  Damascus."  He  had  answered  to  the  sign, 
and  looked  at  my  patches. 

"  I  have  a  son  in  France,  myself,"  he  said. 
"His  name  is  McCrae." 

"Not  John  McCrae?" 

"John  McCrae  is  my  son." 

The  resemblance  was  instant,  but  this  was 
an  older  man  than  at  first  sight  he  seemed  to  be. 
I  asked  him  to  dinner  at  Morley's,  my  place  of 
resort  for  a  length  of  time  beyond  the  memory 
of  all  but  the  oldest  servants.  He  had  already 
dined  but  he  came  and  sat  with  me,  and  told 
me  marvellous  things. 

David  McCrae  had  raised,  and  trained,  a 
field  battery  in  Guelph,  and  brought  it  over- 
seas. He  was  at  the  time  upwards  of  seventy 
years  of  age,  and  was  considered  on  account  of 
years  alone  "unfit"  to  proceed  to  the  front. 
For  many  years  he  had  commanded  a  field 
battery  in  the  Canadian  militia,  went  on 
manoeuvres  with  his  "cannons,"  and  fired  round 
shot.  When  the  time  came  for  using  shells  he 
bored  the  fuse  with  a  gimlet;  and  if  the  gimlet 
were  lost  in  the  grass,  the  gun  was  out  of  action 
until  the  useful  tool  could  be  found.  This 
"cannon  ball"  would  travel  over  the  country 
according  to  the  obstacles  it  encountered  and, 
"if  it  struck  a  man,  it  might  break  his  leg." 

In  such  a  martial  atmosphere  the  boy  was 
[951 


Soutb  Hfrica 

brought  up,  and  he  was  early  nourished  with 
the  history  of  the  Highland  regiments.  Also 
from  his  father  he  inherited,  or  had  instilled 
into  him,  a  love  of  the  out  of  doors,  a  knowledge 
of  trees,  and  plants,  a  sympathy  with  birds  and 
beasts,  domestic  and  wild.  When  the  South 
African  war  broke  out  a  contingent  was  dis- 
patched from  Canada,  but  it  was  so  small  that 
few  of  those  desiring  to  go  could  find  a  place. 
This  explains  the  genesis  of  the  following  letter: 

I  see  by  to-night's  bulletin  that  there  is  to  be  no  second 
contingent.  I  feel  sick  with  disappointment,  and  do  not 
believe  that  I  have  ever  been  so  disappointed  in  my  life, 
for  ever  since  this  business  began  I  am  certain  there  have 
not  been  fifteen  minutes  of  my  waking  hours  that  it  has 
not  been  in  my  mind.  It  has  to  come  sooner  or  later. 
One  campaign  might  cure  me,  but  nothing  else  ever  will, 
unless  it  should  be  old  age.  I  regret  bitterly  that  I  did 
not  enlist  with  the  first,  for  I  doubt  if  ever  another  chance 
will  offer  like  it.  This  is  not  said  in  ignorance  of  what  the 
hardships  would  be. 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  am  doing  my  work  in  a  merely 
mechanical  way.  If  they  are  taking  surgeons  on  the 
other  side,  I  have  enough  money  to  get  myself  across. 
If  I  knew  any  one  over  there  who  could  do  anything,  I 
would  certainly  set  about  it.  If  I  can  get  an  appointment 
in  England  by  going,  I  will  go.  My  position  here  I  do  not 
count  as  an  old  boot  in  comparison. 

In  the  end  he  accomplished  the  desire  of  his 
heart,  and  sailed  on  the  Laurentian.     Concern- 
ing the  voyage  one  transcription  will  be  enough: 
[96] 


Soutb  Hfrica 

On  orderly  duty.  I  have  just  been  out  taking  the 
picket  at  11.30  P.M.  In  the  stables  the  long  row  of  heads 
in  the  half-darkness,  the  creaking  of  the  ship,  the  shiver- 
ing of  the  hull  from  the  vibration  of  the  engines,  the  sing 
of  a  sentry  on  the  spar  deck  to  some  passer-by.  Then  to 
the  forward  deck:  the  sky  half  covered  with  scudding 
clouds,  the  stars  bright  in  the  intervals,  the  wind  whistling 
a  regular  blow  that  tries  one's  ears,  the  constant  swish  as 
she  settles  down  to  a  ~ea;  and,  looking  aft,  the  funnel  with 
a  wreath  of  smoke  trailing  away  off  into  the  darkness  on 
the  starboard  quarter;  the  patch  of  white  on  the  funnel 
discernible  dimly ;  the  masts  drawing  maps  across  the  sky  as 
one  looks  up;  the  clank  of  shovels  coming  up  through  the 
ventilators, — if  you  have  ever  been  there,  you  know  it  all. 

There  was  a  voluntary  service  at  six;  two  ships'  lanterns 
and  the  men  all  around,  the  background  of  sky  and  sea, 
and  the  strains  of  "Nearer  my  God  to  Thee"  rising  up  in 
splendid  chorus.  It  was  a  very  effective  scene,  and  it 
occurred  to  me  that  this  was  "the  rooibaatjees  singing  on 
the  road,"  as  the  song  says. 

The  next  entry  is  from  South  Africa: 

GREEN  POINT  CAMP,  CAPETOWN, 
February  2Sth,  1900. 

You  have  no  idea  of  the  work.  Section  commanders 
live  with  their  sections,  which  is  the  right  way.  It  makes 
long  hours.  I  never  knew  a  softer  bed  than  the  ground  is 
these  nights.  I  really  enjoy  every  minute  though  there 
is  anxiety.  We  have  lost  all  our  spare  horses.  We  have 
only  enough  to  turn  out  the  battery  and  no  more. 

After  a  description  of  a  number  of  the  regiments 
camped  near  by  them,  he  speaks  of  the  Indian 
troops,  and  then  says: 

7  [97] 


Soutb  Hfrica 

We  met  the  High  Priest  of  it  all,  and  I  had  a  five  minutes' 
chat  with  him — Kipling  I  mean.  He  visited  the  camp. 
He  looks  like  his  pictures,  and  is  very  affable.  He  told 
me  I  spoke  like  a  Winnipeger.  He  said  we  ought  to  "fine 
the  men  for  drinking  unboiled  water.  Don't  give  them 
C.B.;  it  is  no  good.  Fine  them,  or  drive  common  sense 
into  them.  All  Canadians  have  common  sense." 

The  next  letter  is  from  the  Lines  of  Communi- 
cation: 

VAN  WYKS  VLEI, 
March  22nd,  1900. 

Here  I  am  with  my  first  command.  Each  place  we 
strike  is  a  little  more  God-forsaken  than  the  last,  and  this 
place  wins  up  to  date.  We  marched  last  week  from 
Victoria  west  to  Carnovan,  about  80  miles.  We  stayed 
there  over  Sunday,  and  on  Monday  my  section  was  de- 
tached with  mounted  infantry,  I  being  the  only  artillery 
officer.  We  marched  54  miles  in  37  hours  with  stops; 
not  very  fast,  but  quite  satisfactory.  My  horse  is  doing 
well,  although  very  thin.  Night  before  last  on  the  road 
we  halted,  and  I  dismounted  for  a  minute.  When  we 
started  I  pulled  on  the  lines  but  no  answer.  The  poor  old 
chap  was  fast  asleep  in  his  tracks,  and  in  about  thirty 
seconds  too. 

This  continuous  marching  is  really  hard  work.  The 
men  at  every  halt  just  drop  down  in  the  road  and  sleep 
until  they  are  kicked  up  again  in  ten  minutes.  They  do  it 
willingly  too.  I  am  commanding  officer,  adjutant,  officer 
on  duty,  and  all  the  rest  since  we  left  the  main  body. 
Talk  about  the  Army  in  Flanders !  You  should  hear  this 
battalion.  I  always  knew  soldiers  could  swear,  but  you 
ought  to  hear  these  fellows.  I  am  told  the  first  contingent 
has  got  a  name  among  the  regulars. 

[98] 


Soutb  Hfrica 

Three  weeks  later  he  writes: 

April  roth,  1900. 

We  certainly  shall  have  done  a  good  march  when  we  get 
to  the  railroad,  478  miles  through  a  country  desolate  of 
forage  carrying  our  own  transport  and  one-half  rations 
of  forage,  and  frequently  the  men's  rations.  For  two 
days  running  we  had  nine  hours  in  the  saddle  without 
food.  My  throat  was  sore  and  swollen  for  a  day  or  two, 
and  I  felt  so  sorry  for  myself  at  times  that  I  laughed  to 
think  how  I  must  have  looked:  sitting  on  a  stone,  drinking 
a  pan  of  tea  without  trimmings,  that  had  got  cold,  and 
eating  a  shapeless  lump  of  brown  bread;  my  one  "hank" 
drawn  around  my  neck,  serving  as  hank  and  bandage 
alternately.  It  is  miserable  to  have  to  climb  up  on  one's 
horse  with  a  head  like  a  buzz  saw,  the  sun  very  hot,  and 
"gargle"  in  one's  water  bottle.  It  is  surprising  how  I  can 
go  without  water  if  I  have  to  on  a  short  stretch,  that  is, 
of  ten  hours  in  the  sun.  It  is  after  nightfall  that  the 
thirst  really  seems  to  attack  one  and  actually  gnaws. 
One  thinks  of  all  the  cool  drinks  and  good  things  one  would 
like  to  eat.  Please  understand  that  this  is  not  for  one 
instant  in  any  spirit  of  growling. 

The  detail  was  now  established  at  Victoria 
Road.  Three  entries  appear: 

April  23rd,  1900. 

We  are  still  here  in  camp  hoping  for  orders  to  move, 
but  they  have  not  yet  come.  Most  of  the  other  troops 
have  gone.  A  squadron  of  the  M.C.R.,  my  messmates 
for  the  past  five  weeks,  have  gone  and  I  am  left  an  orphan. 
I  was  very  sorry  to  see  them  go.  They,  in  the  kindness 
of  their  hearts,  say,  if  I  get  stranded,  they  will  do  the  best 
they  can  to  get  a  troop  for  me  in  the  squadron  or  some 

[99] 


Soutb  Sfrtca 

such  employment.  Impracticable,  but  kind.  I  have  no 
wish  to  cease  to  be  a  gunner. 

VICTORIA  ROAD,  May  aoth,  1900. 

The  horses  are  doing  as  well  as  one  can  expect,  for  the 
rations  are  insufficient.  Our  men  have  been  helping  to 
get  ready  a  rest  camp  near  us,  and  have  been  filling 
mattresses  with  hay.  Every  fatigue  party  comes  back 
from  the  hospital,  their  jackets  bulging  with  hay  for  the 
horses.  Two  bales  were  condemned  as  too  musty  to  put 
into  the  mattresses,  and  we  were  allowed  to  take  them 
for  the  horses.  They  didn't  leave  a  spear  of  it.  Isn't  it 
pitiful?  Everything  that  the  heart  of  man  and  woman 
can  devise  has  been  sent  out  for  the  "Tommies,"  but  no 
one  thinks  of  the  poor  horses.  They  get  the  worst  of  it 
all  the  time.  Even  now  we  blush  to  see  the  handful  of 
hay  that  each  horse  gets  at  a  feed. 

The  Boer  War  is  so  far  off  in  time  and  space 
that  a  few  further  detached  references  must 
suffice: 

When  riding  into  Bloemfontein  met  Lord 's  funeral 

at  the  cemetery  gates, — band,  firing  party,  Union  Jack, 
and  about  three  companies.  A  few  yards  farther  on  a 
"Tommy"  covered  only  by  his  blanket,  escorted  by  thir- 
teen men  all  told,  the  last  class  distinction  that  the  world 
can  ever  make. 

We  had  our  baptism  of  fire  yesterday.  They  opened 
on  us  from  the  left  flank.  Their  first  shell  was  about  150 
yards  in  front — direction  good.  The  next  was  100  yards 
over;  and  we  thought  we  were  bracketed.  Some  shrapnel 
burst  over  us  and  scattered  on  all  sides.  I  felt  as  if  a  hail 
storm  was  coming  down,  and  wanted  to  turn  my  back, 
but  it  was  over  in  an  instant.  The  whistle  of  a  shell  is 
[  ioo  ] 


Soutb  Hf rfca 

unpleasant.  You  hear  it  begin  to  scream;  the  scream 
grows  louder  and  louder;  it  seems  to  be  coming  exactly 
your  way;  then  you  realize  that  it  has  gone  over.  Most 
of  them  fell  between  our  guns  and  wagons.  Our  position 
was  quite  in  the  open. 

With  Ian  Hamilton's  column  near  BalmoraJ. 

The  day  was  cold,  much  like  a  December  day  at  home, 
and  by  my  kit  going  astray  I  had  only  light  clothing. 
The  rain  was  fearfully  chilly.  When  we  got  in  about  dark 
we  found  that  the  transport  could  not  come  up,  and  it 
had  all  our  blankets  and  coats.  I  had  my  cape  and  a 
rubber  sheet  for  the  saddle,  both  soaking  wet.  Being  on 
duty  I  held  to  camp,  the  others  making  for  the  house 
nearby  where  they  got  poor  quarters.  I  bunked  out, 
supperless  like  every  one  else,  under  an  ammunition  wagon. 
It  rained  most  of  the  night  and  was  bitterly  cold.  I  slept 
at  intervals,  keeping  the  same  position  all  night,  both 
legs  in  a  puddle  and  my  feet  being  rained  on:  it  was  a 
long  night  from  dark  at  5.30  to  morning.  Ten  men  in 
the  infantry  regiment  next  us  died  during  the  night  from 
exposure.  Altogether  I  never  knew  such  a  night,  and  with 
decent  luck  hope  never  to  see  such  another. 

As  we  passed  we  saw  the  Connaughts  looking  at  the 
graves  of  their  comrades  of  twenty  years  ago.  The  Bat- 
tery rode  at  attention  and  gave  "Eyes  right":  the  first 
time  for  twenty  years  that  the  roll  of  a  British  gun  has 
broken  in  on  the  silence  of  those  unnamed  graves. 

We  were  inspected  by  Lord  Roberts.  The  battery- 
turned  out  very  smart,  and  Lord  Roberts  complimented 
the  Major  on  its  appearance.  He  then  inspected,  and 
afterwards  asked  to  have  the  officers  called  out.  We  were 
presented  to  him  in  turn;  he  spoke  a  few  words  to  each 
[101] 


Soutb  Hfrica 

of  us,  asking  what  our  corps  and  service  had  been.  He 
seemed  surprised  that  we  were  all  Field  Artillery  men, 
but  probably  the  composition  of  the  other  Canadian 
units  had  to  do  with  this.  He  asked  a  good  many  ques- 
tions about  the  horses,  the  men,  and  particularly  about 
the  spirits  of  the  men.  Altogether  he  showed  a  very  kind 
interest  in  the  battery. 

At  nine  took  the  Presbyterian  parade  to  the  lines,  the 
first  Presbyterian  service  since  we  left  Canada.  We  had 
the  right,  the  Gordons  and  the  Royal  Scots  next.  The 
music  was  excellent,  led  by  the  brass  band  of  the  Royal 
Scots,  which  played  extremely  well.  All  the  singing  was 
from  the  psalms  and  paraphrases:  "Old  Hundred"  and 
"Duke  Street"  among  them.  It  was  very  pleasant  to 
hear  the  old  reliables  once  more.  "McCrae's  Covenant- 
ers" some  of  the  officers  called  us;  but  I  should  not  like 
to  set  our  conduct  up  against  the  standard  of  those  austere 
men. 

At  Lyndenburg: 

The  Boers  opened  on  us  at  about  10,000  yards,  the  fire 
being  accurate  from  the  first.  They  shelled  us  till  dark, 
over  three  hours.  The  guns  on  our  left  fired  for  a  long 
time  on  Buller's  camp,  the  ones  on  our  right  on  us.  We 
could  see  the  smoke  and  flash;  then  there  was  a  soul-con- 
suming interval  of  20  to  30  seconds  when  we  would  hear 
the  report,  and  about  five  seconds  later  the  burst.  Many 
in  succession  burst  over  and  all  around  us.  I  picked  up 
pieces  which  fell  within  a  few  feet.  It  was  a  trying  after- 
noon, and  we  stood  around  wondering.  We  moved  the 
horses  back,  and  took  cover  under  the  wagons.  We  were 
thankful  when  the  sun  went  down,  especially  as  for  the 
last  hour  of  daylight  they  turned  all  their  guns  on  us.  The 
casualties  were  few. 

I  102] 


Soutb  Hfrica 

The  next  morning  a  heavy  mist  prevented  the  enemy 
from  firing.  The  division  marched  out  at  7.30  A.M.  The 
attack  was  made  in  three  columns:  cavalry  brigade  on  the 
left;  Buller's  troops  in  the  centre,  Hamilton's  on  the  right. 
The  Canadian  artillery  were  with  Hamilton's  division. 
The  approach  to  the  hill  was  exposed  everywhere  except 
where  some  cover  was  afforded  by  ridges.  We  marched 
out  as  support  to  the  Gordons,  the  cavalry  and  the  Royal 
Horse  Artillery  going  out  to  our  right  as  a  flank  guard. 
While  we  were  waiting  three  loo-pound  shells  struck  the 
top  of  the  ridge  in  succession  about  50  to  75  yards  in  front 
of  the  battery  line.  We  began  to  feel  rather  shaky. 

On  looking  over  the  field  at  this  time  one  could  not  tell 
that  anything  was  occurring  except  for  the  long  range  guns 
replying  to  the  fire  from  the  hill.  The  enemy  had  opened 
fire  as  soon  as  our  advance  was  pushed  out.  With  a  glass 
one  could  distinguish  the  infantry  pushing  up  in  lines, 
five  or  six  in  succession,  the  men  being  some  yards  apart. 
Then  came  a  long  pause,  broken  only  by  the  big  guns. 
At  last  we  got  the  order  to  advance  just  as  the  big  guns  of 
the  enemy  stopped  their  fire.  We  advanced  about  four 
miles  mostly  up  the  slope,  which  is  in  all  about  1500  feet 
high,  over  a  great  deal  of  rough  ground  and  over  a  number 
of  spruits.  The  horses  were  put  to  their  utmost  to  draw 
the  guns  up  the  hills.  As  we  advanced  we  could  see  artil- 
lery crawling  in  from  both  flanks,  all  converging  to  the 
main  hill,  while  far  away  the  infantry  and  cavalry  were 
beginning  to  crown  the  heights  near  us.  Then  the  field 
guns  and  the  pompoms  began  to  play.  As  the  field  guns 
came  up  to  a  broad  plateau  section  after  section  came  into 
action,  and  we  fired  shrapnel  and  lyddite  on  the  crests 
ahead  and  to  the  left.  Every  now  and  then  a  rattle  of 
Mausers  and  Metfords  would  tell  us  that  the  infantry- 
were  at  their  work,  but  practically  the  battle  was  over. 
From  being  an  infantry  attack  as  expected  it  was  the 

[103! 


Cbilfcren  an&  animals 

gunners'  day,  and  the  artillery  seemed  to  do  excellent 
work. 

General  Buller  pushed  up  the  hill  as  the  guns  were  at 
work,  and  afterwards  General  Hamilton;  the  one  as  grim 
as  his  pictures,  the  other  looking  very  happy.  The  wind 
blew  through  us  cold  like  ice  as  we  stood  on  the  hill;  as 
the  artillery  ceased  fire  the  mist  dropped  over  us  chilling 
us  to  the  bone.  We  were  afraid  we  should  have  to  spend 
the  night  on  the  hill,  but  a  welcome  order  came  sending  us 
back  to  camp,  a  distance  of  five  miles  by  the  roads,  as 
Buller  would  hold  the  hill,  and  our  force  must  march  south. 
Our  front  was  over  eight  miles  wide  and  the  objective 
1500  feet  higher  than  our  camp,  and  over  six  miles  away. 
If  the  enemy  had  had  the  nerve  to  stand,  the  position 
could  scarcely  have  been  taken;  certainly  not  without  the 
loss  of  thousands. 

For  this  campaign  he  received  the  Queen's 
Medal  with  three  clasps. 

VI 

Through  all  his  life,  and  through  all  his  let- 
ters, dogs  and  children  followed  him  as  shadows 
follow  men.  To  walk  in  the  streets  with  him 
was  a  slow  procession.  Every  dog  and  every 
child  one  met  must  be  spoken  to,  and  each  made 
answer.  Throughout  the  later  letters  the  names 
Bonfire  and  Bonneau  occur  continually.  Bon- 
fire was  his  horse,  and  Bonneau  his  dog. 

This  horse,  an  Irish  hunter,  was  given  to  him 
by  John  L.  Todd.  It  was  wounded  twice,  and 
now  lives  in  honourable  retirement  at  a  secret 
[  104] 


John  McCrae  and  Bonnean 


CIMl&rcn  anfc  Bnimals 

place  which  need  not  be  disclosed  to  the  army 
authorities.  One  officer  who  had  visited  the  hos- 
pital writes  of  seeing  him  going  about  the  wards 
with  Bonneau  and  a  small  French  child  following 
after.  In  memory  of  his  love  for  animals  and 
children  the  following  extracts  will  serve: 

You  ask  if  the  wee  fellow  has  a  name — Mike,  mostly, 
as  a  term  of  affection.  He  has  found  a  cupboard  in  one 
ward  in  which  oakum  is  stored,  and  he  loves  to  steal  in 
there  and  "pick  oakum,"  amusing  himself  as  long  as  is 
permitted.  I  hold  that  this  indicates  convict  ancestry 
to  which  Mike  makes  no  defence. 

The  family  is  very  well,  even  one-eyed  Mike  is  able  to 
go  round  the  yard  in  his  dressing-gown,  so  to  speak.  He 
is  a  queer  pathetic  little  beast  and  Madame  has  him  "hos- 
pitalized" on  the  bottom  shelf  of  the  sideboard  in  the 
living  room,  whence  he  comes  down  (six  inches  to  the 
floor)  to  greet  me,  and  then  gravely  hirples  back,  the  hind 
legs  looking  very  pathetic  as  he  hops  in.  But  he  is  full  of 
spirit  and  is  doing  very  well. 

As  to  the  animals — "those  poor  voiceless  creatures,"  say 
you.  I  wish  you  could  hear  them.  Bonneau  and  Mike 
are  a  perfect  Dignity  and  Impudence;  and  both  vocal  to 
a  wonderful  degree.  Mike's  face  is  exactly  like  the  terrier 
in  the  old  picture,  and  he  sits  up  and  gives  his  paw  just 
like  Bonneau,  and  I  never  saw  him  have  any  instruction; 
and  as  for  voice,  I  wish  you  could  hear  Bonfire's  "whicker  " 
to  me  in  the  stable  or  elsewhere.  It  is  all  but  talk.  There 
is  one  ward  door  that  he  tries  whenever  we  pass.  He 
turns  his  head  around,  looks  into  the  door,  and  waits. 
The  Sisters  in  the  ward  have  changed  frequently,  but  all 

[105] 


Cbil&ren  an£>  Bnfmals 

alike  "fall  for  it,"  as  they  say,  and  produce  a  biscuit  or 
some  such  dainty  which  Bonfire  takes  with  much  gravity 
and  gentleness.  Should  I  chide  him  for  being  too  eager 
and  give  him  my  hand  saying,  "Gentle  now,"  he  mumbles 
with  his  lips,  and  licks  with  his  tongue  like  a  dog  to  show 
how  gentle  he  can  be  when  he  tries.  Truly  a  great  boy  is 
that  same.  On  this  subject  I  am  like  a  doting  grandmother, 
but  forgive  it. 

I  have  a  very  deep  affection  for  Bonfire,  for  we  have 
been  through  so  much  together,  and  some  of  it  bad  enough. 
All  the  hard  spots  to  which  one's  memory  turns  the  old 
fellow  has  shared,  though  he  says  so  little  about  it. 

This  love  of  animals  was  no  vagrant  mood. 
Fifteen  years  before  in  South  Africa  he  wrote  in 
his  diary  under  date  of  September  i  ith,  1900: 

I  wish  I  could  introduce  you  to  the  dogs  of  the  force. 
The  genus  dog  here  is  essentially  sociable,  and  it  is  a  great 
pleasure  to  have  them  about.  I  think  I  have  a  personal 
acquaintance  with  them  all.  There  are  our  pups — Dolly, 
whom  I  always  know  by  her  one  black  and  one  white  eye- 
brow; Grit  and  Tory,  two  smaller  gentlemen,  about  the 
size  of  a  pound  of  butter — and  fighters;  one  small  white 
gentleman  who  rides  on  a  horse,  on  the  blanket;  Kitty, 
the  monkey,  also  rides  the  off  lead  of  the  forge  wagon. 
There  is  a  black  almond-eyed  person  belonging  to  the 
Royal  Scots,  who  begins  to  twist  as  far  as  I  can  see  her, 
and  comes  up  in  long  curves,  extremely  genially.  A  small 
shaggy  chap  who  belongs  to  the  Royal  Irish  stands  upon 
his  hind  legs  and  spars  with  his  front  feet — and  lots  of 
others — every  one  of  them  "a  soldier  and  a  man."  The 
Royal  Scots  have  a  monkey,  Jenny,  who  goes  around 
always  trailing  a  sack  in  her  hand,  into  which  she  creeps 
if  necessary  to  obtain  shelter. 

[106] 


Cbtltn-en  anfc  animals 

The  other  day  old  Jack,  my  horse,  was  bitten  by  his 
next  neighbor;  he  turned  slowly,  eyed  his  opponent,  shifted 
his  rope  so  that  he  had  a  little  more  room,  turned  very 
deliberately,  and  planted  both  heels  in  the  offender's 
stomach.  He  will  not  be  run  upon. 

From  a  time  still  further  back  comes  a  note 
in  a  like  strain.  In  1898  he  was  house  physician 
in  a  children's  hospital  at  Mt.  Airy,  Maryland, 
when  he  wrote: 

A  kitten  has  taken  up  with  a  poor  cripple  dying  of  muscu- 
lar atrophy  who  cannot  move.  It  stays  with  him  all  the 
time,  and  sleeps  most  of  the  day  in  his  straw  hat.  To- 
night I  saw  the  kitten  curled  up  under  the  bed-clothes. 
It  seems  as  if  it  were  a  gift  of  Providence  that  the  little 
creature  should  attach  itself  to  the  child  who  needs  it  most. 

Of  another  child: 

The  day  she  died  she  called  for  me  all  day,  deposed  the 
nurse  who  was  sitting  by  her,  and  asked  me  to  remain 
with  her.  She  had  to  be  held  up  on  account  of  lack  of 
breath;  and  I  had  a  tiring  hour  of  it  before  she  died,  but 
it  seemed  to  make  her  happier  and  was  no  great  sacrifice. 
Her  friends  arrived  twenty  minutes  too  late.  It  seems 
hard  that  Death  will  not  wait  the  poor  fraction  of  an  hour, 
but  so  it  is. 

And  here  are  some  letters  to  his  nephews  and 
nieces  which  reveal  his  attitude  both  to  children 
and  to  animals. 

[107] 


Cbtlfcrcn  anfc  Hnimals 

From  Bonfire  to  Sergt.-Major  Jack  Kilgour 

August  6th,  1916. 

Did  you  ever  have  a  sore  hock?  I  have  one  now,  and 
Cruickshank  puts  bandages  on  my  leg.  He  also  washed 
my  white  socks  for  me.  I  am  glad  you  got  my  picture. 
My  master  is  well,  and  the  girls  tell  me  I  am  looking  well, 
too.  The  ones  I  like  best  give  me  biscuits  and  sugar,  and 
sometimes  flowers.  One  of  them  did  not  want  to  give 
me  some  mignonette  the  other  day  because  she  said  it 
would  make  me  sick.  It  did  not  make  me  sick.  Another 
one  sends  me  bags  of  carrots.  If  you  don't  know  how  to 
eat  carrots,  tops  and  all,  you  had  better  learn,  but  I  sup- 
pose you  are  just  a  boy,  and  do  not  know  how  good  oats 
are. 

BONFIRE  His   fly    Mark. 
From  Bonfire  to  Sergt.-Major  Jack  Kilgour 

October  1st,  1916. 

DEAR  JACK, 

Did  you  ever  eat  blackberries?  My  master  and  I  pick 
them  every  day  on  the  hedges.  I  like  twenty  at  a  time. 
My  leg  is  better  but  I  have  a  lump  on  my  tummy.  I  went 
to  see  my  doctor  to-day,  and  he  says  it  is  nothing  at  all. 
I  have  another  horse  staying  in  my  stable  now;  he  is 
black,  and  about  half  my  size.  He  does  not  keep  me 
awake  at  night.  Yours  truly, 

BONFIRE  His     O    Mark. 


From  Bonfire  to  Margaret  Kilgour,  Civilian 

November  sth,  1916. 

DEAR  MARGARET: 

This  is  Guy  Fox  Day!     I  spell  it  that  way  because  fox- 
hunting was  my  occupation  a  long  time  ago  before  the 
[108] 


CbilDrcn  an&  Bnimals 

war.  How  are  Sergt.-Major  Jack  and  Corporal  David? 
Ask  Jack  if  he  ever  bites  through  his  rope  at  night,  and 
gets  into  the  oat-box.  And  as  for  the  Corporal,  "I  bet 
you"  I  can  jump  as  far  as  he  can.  I  hear  David  has  lost 
his  red  coat.  I  still  have  my  grey  one,  but  it  is  pretty 
dirty  now,  for  I  have  not  had  a  new  one  for  a  long  time. 
I  got  my  hair  cut  a  few  weeks  ago  and  am  to  have  new 
boots  next  week.  Bonneau  and  Follette  send  their  love. 
Yours  truly,  -. 

BONFIRE  His    «))     Mark. 


IN  FLANDERS,  April  3rd,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  MARGARET: 

There  is  a  little  girl  in  this  house  whose  name  is  Clothilde. 
She  is  ten  years  old,  and  calls  me  "Monsieur  le  Major." 
How  would  you  like  it  if  twenty  or  thirty  soldiers  came 
along  and  lived  in  your  house  and  put  their  horses  in  the 
shed  or  the  stable?  There  are  not  many  little  boys  and 
girls  left  in  this  part  of  the  country,  but  occasionally  one 
meets  them  on  the  roads  with  baskets  of  eggs  or  loaves  of 
bread.  Most  of  them  have  no  homes,  for  their  houses 
have  been  burnt  by  the  Germans;  but  they  do  not  cry 
over  it.  It  is  dangerous  for  them,  for  a  shell  might  hit 
them  at  any  time — and  it  would  not  be  an  eggshell,  either. 

Bonfire  is  very  well.  Mother  sent  him  some  packets  of 
sugar,  and  if  ever  you  saw  a  big  horse  excited  about  a 
little  parcel,  it  was  Bonfire.  He  can  have  only  two  lumps 
in  any  one  day,  for  there  is  not  much  of  it.  Twice  he  has 
had  gingerbread  and  he  is  very  fond  of  that.  It  is  rather 
funny  for  a  soldier-horse,  is  it  not?  But  soldier  horses 
have  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it,  sometimes,  so  we  do  not 
grudge  them  a  little  luxury.  Bonfire's  friends  are  King, 
and  Prince,  and  Saxonia, — all  nice  big  boys.  If  they  go 
away  and  leave  him,  he  whinnies  till  he  catches  sight  of 
them  again,  and  then  he  is  quite  happy.  How  is  the  I5th 
[  109] 


Cbtlfcren  an&  Hnimals 

Street  Brigade  getting  on?  Tell  Mother  I  recommend 
Jack  for  promotion  to  corporal  if  he  has  been  good.  David 
will  have  to  be  a  gunner  for  awhile  yet,  for  everybody 
cannot  be  promoted.  Give  my  love  to  Katharine,  and 
Jack,  and  David. 

Your  affectionate  uncle  Jack. 

Bonfire,  and  Bonneau,  and  little  Mike,  are  all  well. 
Mike  is  about  four  months  old  and  has  lost  an  eye  and  had 
a  leg  broken,  but  he  is  a  very  good  little  boy  all  the  same. 
He  is  very  fond  of  Bonfire,  and  Bonneau,  and  me.  I  go 
to  the  stable  and  whistle,  and  Bonneau  and  Mike  come 
running  out  squealing  with  joy,  to  go  for  a  little  walk 
with  me.  When  Mike  conies  to  steps,  he  puts  his  feet 
on  the  lowest  steps  and  turns  and  looks  at  me  and  I  lift 
him  up.  He  is  a  dear  ugly  little  chap. 

The  dogs  are  often  to  be  seen  sprawled  on  the  floor  of 
my  tent.  I  like  to  have  them  there  for  they  are  very 
home-like  beasts.  They  never  seem  French  to  me.  Bon- 
neau can  "dormer  la  patte"  in  good  style  nowadays,  and 
he  sometimes  curls  up  inside  the  rabbit  hutch,  and  the 
rabbits  seem  to  like  him. 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  hundreds  of  rabbits  there  are 
here  on  the  sand-dunes;  there  are  also  many  larks  and 
jackdaws.  (These  are  different  from  your  brother  Jack 
although  they  have  black  faces.)  There  are  herons,  cur- 
lews, and  even  ducks;  and  the  other  day  I  saw  four  young 
weasels  in  a  heap,  jumping  over  each  other  from  side  to 
side  as  they  ran. 

Sir  Bertrand  Dawson  has  a  lovely  little  spaniel,  Sue,  quite 
black,  who  goes  around  with  him.  I  am  quite  a  favourite, 
and  one  day  Sir  Bertrand  said  to  me,  "She  has  brought 
you  a  present,"  and  here  she  was  waiting  earnestly  for  me 
to  remove  from  her  mouth  a  small  stone.  It  is  usually  a 
simple  gift,  I  notice,  and  does  not  embarrass  by  its  value. 


Cbitoren  an&  Hnfmals 

Bonfire  is  very  sleek  and  trim,  and  we  journey  much. 
If  I  sit  down  in  his  reach  I  wish  you  could  see  how  deftly 
he  can  pick  off  my  cap  and  swing  it  high  out  of  my  reach. 
He  also  carries  my  crop;  his  games  are  simple,  but  he  does 
not  readily  tire  of  them. 

I  lost  poor  old  Windy.  He  was  the  regimental  dog  of 
the  ist  Batt.  Lincolns,  and  came  to  this  vale  of  Avalon 
to  be  healed  of  his  second  wound.  He  spent  a  year  at 
Gallipoli  and  was  "over  the  top"  twice  with  his  battalion. 
He  came  to  us  with  his  papers  like  any  other  patient,  and 
did  very  well  for  a  while,  but  took  suddenly  worse.  He 
had  all  that  care  and  love  could  suggest  and  enough  mor- 
phine to  keep  the  pain  down;  but  he  was  very  pathetic, 
and  I  had  resolved  that  it  would  be  true  friendship  to 
help  him  over  when  he  "went  west."  He  is  buried  in  our 
woods  like  any  other  good  soldier,  and  yesterday  I  noticed 
that  some  one  has  laid  a  little  wreath  of  ivy  on  his  grave. 
He  was  an  old  dog  evidently,  but  we  are  all  sore-hearted 
at  losing  him.  His  kit  is  kept  should  his  master  return, 
— only  his  collar  with  his  honourable  marks,  for  his  ward- 
robe was  of  necessity  simple.  So  another  sad  chapter  ends. 

September  29th,  1913. 

Bonneau  gravely  accompanies  me  round  the  wards  and 
waits  for  me,  sitting  up  in  a  most  dignified  way.  He  comes 
into  my  tent  and  sits  there  very  gravely  while  I  dress. 
Two  days  ago  a  Sister  brought  out  some  biscuits  for  Bon- 
fire, and  not  understanding  the  rules  of  the  game,  which 
are  bit  and  bit  about  for  Bonfire  and  Bonneau,  gave  all 
to  Bonfire,  so  that  poor  Bonneau  sat  below  and  caught  the 
crumbs  that  fell.  I  can  see  that  Bonfire  makes  a  great 
hit  with  the  Sisters  because  he  licks  their  hands  just  like 
a  dog,  and  no  crumb  is  too  small  to  be  gone  after. 

April,   1917. 

I  was  glad  to  get  back;  Bonfire  and  Bonneau  greeted  me 
[in] 


Ube  ©U>  Xanfc 

very  enthusiastically.  I  had  a  long  long  story  from  the 
dog,  delivered  with  uplifted  muzzle.  They  tell  me  he  sat 
gravely  on  the  roads  a  great  deal  during  my  absence,  and 
all  his  accustomed  haunts  missed  him.  He  is  back  on 
rounds  faithfully. 

VII 

If  one  were  engageti  upon  a  formal  work  of 
biography  rather  than  a  mere  essay  in  character, 
it  would  be  just  and  proper  to  investigate  the 
family  sources  from  which  the  individual  mem- 
ber is  sprung;  but  I  must  content  myself  within 
the  bounds  which  I  have  set,  and  leave  the  larger 
task  to  a  more  laborious  hand.  The  essence  of 
history  lies  in  the  character  of  the  persons  con- 
cerned, rather  than  in  the  feats  which  they 
performed.  A  man  neither  lives  to  himself  nor 
in  himself.  He  is  indissolubly  bound  up  with 
his  stock,  and  can  only  explain  himself  in  terms 
common  to  his  family;  but  in  doing  so  he  tran- 
scends the  limits  of  history,  and  passes  into  the 
realms  of  philosophy  and  religion. 

The  life  of  a  Canadian  is  bound  up  with  the 
history  of  his  parish,  of  his  town,  of  his  province, 
of  his  country,  and  even  with  the  history  of 
that  country  in  which  his  family  had  its  birth. 
The  life  of  John  McCrae  takes  us  back  to  Scot- 
land. In  Canada  there  has  been  much  writing 
of  history  of  a  certain  kind.  1 1  deals  with  events 
rather  than  with  the  subtler  matter  of  people, 
[112] 


Sn&  tbe  Hew 

and  has  been  written  mainly  for  purposes  of 
advertising.  If  the  French  made  a  heroic  stand 
against  the  Iroquois,  the  sacred  spot  is  now  fur- 
nished with  an  hotel  from  which  a  free  'bus 
runs  to  a  station  upon  the  line  of  an  excellent 
railway.  Maisonneuve  fought  his  great  fight 
upon  a  place  from  which  a  vicious  mayor  cut 
the  trees  which  once  sheltered  the  soldier,  to 
make  way  for  a  fountain  upon  which  would  be 
raised  "historical"  figures  in  concrete  stone. 

The  history  of  Canada  is  the  history  of  its 
people,  not  of  its  railways,  hotels,  and  factories. 
The  material  exists  in  written  or  printed  form 
in  the  little  archives  of  many  a  family.  Such 
a  chronicle  is  in  possession  of  the  Eckford  family 
which  now  by  descent  on  the  female  side  bears 
the  honoured  names  of  Gow,  and  McCrae. 
John  Eckford  had  two  daughters,  in  the  words 
of  old  Jamie  Young,  "the  most  lovingest  girls 
he  ever  knew."  The  younger,  Janet  Simpson, 
was  taken  to  wife  by  David  McCrae,  2ist 
January,  1870,  and  on  November  3oth,  1872, 
became  the  mother  of  John.  To  her  he  wrote 
all  these  letters,  glowing  with  filial  devotion, 
which  I  am  privileged  to  use  so  freely. 

There  is  in  the  family  a  tradition  of  the  single 

name  for  the  males.     It  was  therefore  proper 

that   the   elder  born  should  be  called  Thomas, 

more  learned  in  medicine,   more  assiduous  in 

s  [113] 


Ube  ©U>  Xanfc 

practice,  and  more  weighty  in  intellect  even 
than  the  otherwise  more  highly  gifted  John. 
He  too  is  professor  of  medicine,  and  co-author 
of  a  profound  work  with  his  master  and  relative 
by  marriage — Sir  William  Osier.  Also,  he  wore 
the  King's  uniform  and  served  in  the  present 
war. 

This  John  Eckford,  accompanied  by  his  two 
daughters,  the  mother  being  dead,  his  sister, 
her  husband  who  bore  the  name  of  Chisholm, 
and  their  numerous  children  emigrated  to 
Canada,  May  28th,  1851,  in  the  ship  Clutha 
which  sailed  from  the  Broomielaw  bound  for 
Quebec.  The  consort,  Wolfcille,  upon  which 
they  had  originally  taken  passage,  arrived  in 
Quebec  before  them,  and  lay  in  the  stream, 
flying  the  yellow  flag  of  quarantine.  Cholera 
had  broken  out.  "  Be  still,  and  see  the  salvation 
of  the  Lord,"  were  the  words  of  the  family 
morning  prayers. 

In  the  Clulla  also  came  as  passengers  James 
and  Mary  Gow;  their  cousin,  one  Duncan  Mon- 
ach;  Mrs.  Manning,  who  was  a  sister  of  Thomas 
Carlyle;  and  her  two  daughters.  On  the  voy- 
age they  escaped  the  usual  hardships,  and 
their  fare  appears  to  us  in  these  days  to  have 
been  abundant.  The  weekly  ration  was  three 
quarts  of  water,  two  ounces  of  tea,  one  half 
pound  of  sugar,  one  half  pound  molasses,  three 


tbe  flew 


pounds  of  bread,  one  pound  of  flour,  two  pounds 
of  rice,  and  five  pounds  of  oatmeal. 

The  reason  for  this  migration  is  succinctly 
stated  by  the  head  of  the  house.  "  I  know  how 
hard  it  was  for  my  mother  to  start  me,  and  I 
wanted  land  for  my  children  and  a  better  oppor- 
tunity for  them."  And  yet  his  parents  in  their 
time  appear  to  have  "started"  him  pretty  well, 
although  his  father  was  obliged  to  confess,  "  I 
never  had  more  of  this  world's  goods  than  to 
bring  up  my  family  by  the  labour  of  my  hands 
honestly,  but  it  is  more  than  my  Master  owned, 
who  had  not  where  to  lay  His  head."  They 
allowed  him  that  very  best  means  of  education, 
a  calmness  of  the  senses,  as  he  herded  sheep 
on  the  Cheviot  Hills.  They  put  him  to  the 
University  in  Edinburgh,  as  a  preparation  for 
the  ministry,  and  supplied  him  with  ample  oat- 
meal, peasemeal  bannocks,  and  milk.  In  that 
great  school  of  divinity  he  learned  the  Hebrew, 
Greek,  and  Latin;  he  studied  Italian,  and  French 
under  Surenne,  him  of  blessed  memory  even 
unto  this  day. 

John  Eckford  in  1839  married  Margaret 
Christie,  and  he  went  far  afield  for  a  wife,  namely 
from  Newbiggin  in  Forfar,  where  for  fourteen 
years  he  had  his  one  and  only  charge,  to  Strath- 
miglo  in  Fife.  The  marriage  was  fruitful  and 
a  happy  one,  although  there  is  a  hint  in  the 
[115! 


record  of  some  religious  difference  upon  which 
one  would  like  to  dwell  if  the  subject  were  not 
too  esoteric  for  this  generation.  The  minister 
showed  a  certain  indulgence,  and  so  long  as  his 
wife  lived  he  never  employed  the  paraphrases 
in  the  solemn  worship  of  the  sanctuary.  She 
was  a  woman  of  provident  mind.  Shortly  af- 
ter they  were  married  he  made  the  discovery 
that  she  had  prepared  the  grave  clothes  for  him 
as  well  as  for  herself.  Too  soon,  after  only  eight 
years,  it  was  her  fate  to  be  shrouded  in  them. 
After  her  death — probably  because  of  her 
death — John  Eckford  emigrated  to  Canada. 

To  one  who  knows  the  early  days  in  Canada 
there  is  nothing  new  in  the  story  of  this  family. 
They  landed  in  Montreal  July  nth,  1851,  forty- 
four  days  out  from  Glasgow.  They  proceeded 
by  steamer  to  Hamilton,  the  fare  being  about 
a  dollar  for  each  passenger.  The  next  stage  was 
to  Guelph;  then  on  to  Durham,  and  finally 
they  came  to  the  end  of  their  journeying  near 
Walkerton  in  Bruce  County  in  the  primeval 
forest,  from  which  they  cut  out  a  home  for 
themselves  and  for  their  children. 

It  was  "the  winter  of  the  deep  snow."  One 
transcription  from  the  record  will  disclose  the 
scene: 

At  length  a  grave  was  dug  on  a  knoll  in  the  bush  at  the 
foot  of  a  great  maple  with  a  young  snow-laden  hemlock 

[1x6] 


Bn&  tbc  flew 

at  the  side.  The  father  and  the  eldest  brother  carried  the 
box  along  the  shovelled  path.  The  mother  close  behind 
was  followed  by  the  two  families.  The  snow  was  falling 
heavily.  At  the  grave  John  Eckford  read  a  psalm,  and 
prayed,  "that  they  might  be  enabled  to  believe,  the  mercy 
of  the  Lord  is  from  everlasting  to  everlasting  unto  them 
that  fear  Him." 


John  McCrae  himself  was  an  indefatigable 
church-goer.  There  is  a  note  in  childish  char- 
acters written  from  Edinburgh  in  his  thirteenth 
year,  "On  Sabbath  went  to  service  four  times." 
There  the  statement  stands  in  all  its  austerity. 
A  letter  from  a  chaplain  is  extant  in  which  a 
certain  mild  wonder  is  expressed  at  the  regular- 
ity in  attendance  of  an  officer  of  field  rank.  To 
his  sure  taste  in  poetry  the  hymns  were  a  sore 
trial.  "Only  forty  minutes  are  allowed  for 
the  service,"  he  said,  "and  it  is  sad  to  see  them 
'  snappit  up'  by  these  poor  bald  four-line  things." 

On  Easter  Sunday,  1915,  he  wrote:  "We  had 
a  church  parade  this  morning,  the  first  since  we 
arrived  in  France.  Truly,  if  the  dead  rise  not, 
we  are  of  all  men  the  most  miserable."  On  the 
funeral  service  of  a  friend  he  remarks:  "'Foras- 
much as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty  God/ — what 
a  summary  of  the  whole  thing  that  is!"  On 
many  occasions  he  officiated  in  the  absence 
of  the  chaplains  who  in  those  days  would  have 
as  many  as  six  services  a  day.  In  civil  life  in 
[117] 


Ube  Civil  L>cars 

Montreal  he  went  to  church  in  the  evening,  and 
sat  under  the  Reverend  James  Barclay  of  St. 
Pauls,  now  designated  by  some  at  least  as  St. 
Andrews. 

VIII 

It  will  be  observed  in  this  long  relation  of 
John  McCrae  that  little  mention  has  yet  been 
made  of  what  after  all  was  his  main  concern 
in  life.  For  twenty  years  he  studied  and  prac- 
tised medicine.  To  the  end  he  was  an  assiduous 
student  and  a  very  profound  practitioner.  He 
was  a  student,  not  of  medicine  alone,  but  of  all 
subjects  ancillary  to  the  science,  and  to  the  task 
he  came  with  a  mind  braced  by  a  sound  and 
generous  education.  Any  education  of  real 
value  a  man  must  have  received  before  he  has 
attained  to  the  age  of  seven  years.  Indeed  he 
may  be  left  impervious  to  its  influence  at  seven 
weeks.  John  McCrae's  education  began  well. 
It  began  in  the  time  of  his  two  grandfathers  at 
least,  was  continued  by  his  father  and  mother 
before  he  came  upon  this  world's  scene,  and  by 
them  was  left  deep  founded  for  him  to  build 
upon. 

Noble  natures  have  a  repugnance  from  work. 
Manual  labour  is  servitude.  A  day  of  idleness 
is  a  holy  day.  For  those  whose  means  do  not 
permit  to  live  in  idleness  the  school  is  the  only 


ttbe  Civil  U>ears 

refuge;  but  they  must  prove  their  quality. 
This  is  the  goal  which  drives  many  Scotch  boys 
to  the  University,  scorning  delights  and  willing 
to  live  long,  mind-laborious  days. 

John  McCrae's  father  felt  bound  "  to  give  the 
boy  a  chance,"  but  the  boy  must  pass  the  test. 
The  test  in  such  cases  is  the  Shorter  Catechism, 
that  compendium  of  all  intellectual  argument. 
How  the  faithful  aspirant  for  the  school  acquires 
this  body  of  written  knowledge  at  a  time  when 
he  has  not  yet  learned  the  use  of  letters  is  a 
secret  not  to  be  lightly  disclosed.  It  may 
indeed  be  that  already  his  education  is  com- 
plete. Upon  the  little  book  is  always  printed 
the  table  of  multiples,  so  that  the  obvious  truth 
which  is  comprised  in  the  statement,  "two  by 
two  makes  four,"  is  imputed  to  the  contents 
which  are  within  the  cover.  In  studying  the 
table  the  catechism  is  learned  surreptitiously, 
and  therefore  without  self-consciousness. 

So,  in  this  well  ordered  family  with  its  atmos- 
phere of  obedience,  we  may  see  the  boy,  like  a 
youthful  Socrates  going  about  with  a  copy  of 
the  book  in  his  hand,  enquiring  of  those,  who 
could  already  read,  not  alone  what  were  the 
answers  to  the  questions  but  the  very  questions 
themselves  to  which  an  answer  was  demanded. 

This  learning,  however,  was  only  a  minor 
part  of  life,  since  upon  a  farm  life  is  very  wide 
[119] 


ZTbe  Civil 


and  very  deep.  In  due  time  the  school  was 
accomplished,  and  there  was  a  master  in  the 
school  —  let  his  name  be  recorded  —  William 
Tytler,  who  had  a  feeling  for  English  writing 
and  a  desire  to  extend  that  feeling  to  others. 

In  due  time  also  the  question  of  a  University 
arose.  There  was  a  man  in  Canada  named 
Dawson  —  Sir  William  Dawson.  I  have  written 
of  him  in  another  place.  He  had  the  idea  that 
a  university  had  something  to  do  with  the  forma- 
tion of  character,  and  that  in  the  formation  of 
character  religion  had  a  part.  He  was  principal 
of  McGill.  I  am  not  saying  that  all  boys  who 
entered  that  University  were  religious  boys 
when  they  went  in,  or  even  religious  men  when 
they  came  out;  but  religious  fathers  had  a  general 
desire  to  place  their  boys  under  Sir  William 
Dawson's  care. 

Those  were  the  days  of  a  queer,  and  now  for- 
gotten, controversy  over  what  was  called  "Sci- 
ence and  Religion."  Of  that  also  I  have  written 
in  another  place.  It  was  left  to  Sir  William 
Dawson  to  deliver  the  last  word  in  defence  of  a 
cause  that  was  already  lost.  His  book  came 
under  the  eye  of  David  McCrae,  as  most  books 
of  the  time  did,  and  he  was  troubled  in  his  heart. 
His  boys  were  at  the  University  of  Toronto.  It 
was  too  late;  but  he  eased  his  mind  by  writing 
a  letter.  To  this  letter  John  replies  under  date 
[  120] 


Ube  Civil  H>ears 

2oth  December,  1890:  "You  say  that  after 
reading  Dawson's  book  you  almost  regretted 
that  we  had  not  gone  to  McGill.  That,  I  con- 
sider, would  have  been  rather  a  calamity,  about 
as  much  so  as  going  to  Queen's."  We  are  not 
always  wiser  than  our  fathers  were,  and  in  the 
end  he  came  to  McGill  after  all. 

For  good  or  ill,  John  McCrae  entered  the 
University  of  Toronto  in  1888,  with  a  scholar- 
ship for  "general  proficiency."  He  joined  the 
Faculty  of  Arts,  took  the  honours  course  in 
natural  sciences,  and  graduated  from  the  depart- 
ment of  biology  in  1894,  his  course  having  been 
interrupted  by  two  severe  illnesses.  From 
natural  science,  it  was  an  easy  step  to  medicine, 
in  which  he  was  encouraged  by  Ramsay  Wright, 
A.  B.  Macallum,  A.  McPhedran,  and  I.  H. 
Cameron.  In  1898  he  graduated  again,  with  a 
gold  medal,  and  a  scholarship  in  physiology  and 
pathology.  The  previous  summer  he  had  spent 
at  the  Garrett  Children's  Hospital  in  Mt.  Airy, 
Maryland. 

Upon  graduating  he  entered  the  Toronto 
General  Hospital  as  resident  house  officer;  in 
1899  he  occupied  a  similar  post  at  Johns  Hop- 
kins. Then  he  came  to  McGill  University  as 
fellow  in  pathology  and  pathologist  to  the  Mont- 
real General  Hospital.  I  n  time  he  was  appointed 
physician  to  the  Alexandra  Hospital  for  infec- 

[121] 


ZTbe  Civil 


tious  diseases;  later  assistant  physician  to  the 
Royal  Victoria  Hospital,  and  lecturer  in  medi- 
cine in  the  University.  By  examination  he 
became  a  member  of  the  Royal  College  of  Physi- 
cians, London.  In  1914  he  was  ejected  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Association  of  American  Physicians. 
These  are  distinctions  won  by  few  in  the  pro- 
fession. 

In  spite,  or  rather  by  reason,  of  his  various 
attainments  John  McCrae  never  developed,  or 
degenerated,  into  the  type  of  the  pure  scientist. 
For  the  laboratory  he  had  neither  the  mind 
nor  the  hands.  He  never  peered  at  partial 
truths  so  closely  as  to  mistake  them  for  the 
whole  truth;  therefore,  he  was  unfitted  for  that 
purely  scientific  career  which  was  developed  to 
so  high  a  pitch  of  perfection  in  that  nation  which 
is  now  no  longer  mentioned  amongst  men.  He 
wrote  much,  and  often,  upon  medical  problems. 
The  papers  bearing  his  name  amount  to  thirty- 
three  items  in  the  catalogues.  They  testify  to 
his  industry  rather  than  to  invention  and  dis- 
covery, but  they  have  made  his  name  known  in 
every  text-book  of  medicine. 

Apart  from  his  verse,  and  letters,  and  diaries, 
and  contributions  to  journals  and  books  of 
medicine,  with  an  occasional  address  to  students 
or  to  societies,  John  McCrae  left  few  writings, 
and  in  these  there  is  nothing  remarkable  by 
[122] 


Civil 


reason  of  thought  or  expression.  He  could  not 
write  prose.  Fine  as  was  his  ear  for  verse  he 
could  not  produce  that  finer  rhythm  of  prose, 
which  comes  from  the  fall  of  proper  words  in 
proper  sequence.  He  never  learned  that  if  a 
writer  of  prose  takes  care  of  the  sound  the  sense 
will  take  care  of  itself.  He  did  not  scrutinize 
words  to  discover  their  first  and  fresh  meaning. 
He  wrote  in  phrases,  and  used  words  at  second- 
hand as  the  journalists  do.  Bullets  "rained"; 
guns  "swept";  shells  "hailed";  events  "trans- 
pired," and  yet  his  appreciation  of  style  in 
others  was  perfect,  and  he  was  an  insatiable 
reader  of  the  best  books.  His  letter  are  strewn 
with  names  of  authors  whose  worth  time  has 
proved.  To  specify  them  would  merely  be  to 
write  the  catalogue  of  a  good  library. 

The  thirteen  years  with  which  this  century 
opened  were  the  period  in  which  John  McCrae 
established  himself  in  civil  life  in  Montreal  and 
in  the  profession  of  medicine.  Of  this  period 
he  has  left  a  chronicle  which  is  at  once  too  long 
and  too  short. 

All  lives  are  equally  interesting  if  only  we 
are  in  possession  of  all  the  facts.  Places  like 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  have  been  made  inter- 
esting because  the  people  who  live  in  them  are 
in  the  habit  of  writing,  and  always  write  about 
each  other.  Family  letters  have  little  interest 
[123] 


tTbe  Civil  l£>ears 

even  for  the  family  itself,  if  they  consist  merely 
of  a  recital  of  the  trivial  events  of  the  day. 
They  are  prized  for  the  unusual  and  for  the 
sentiment  they  contain.  Diaries  also  are  dull 
unless  they  deal  with  selected  incidents;  and  se- 
lection is  the  essence  of  every  art.  Few  events 
have  any  interest  in  themselves,  but  any  event 
can  be  made  interesting  by  the  pictorial  or 
literary  art. 

When  he  writes  to  his  mother,  that,  as  he  was 
coming  out  of  the  college,  an  Irish  setter  pressed 
a  cold  nose  against  his  hand,  that  is  interesting 
because  it  is  unusual.  If  he  tells  us  that  a  pro- 
fessor took  him  by  the  arm,  there  is  no  interest 
in  that  to  her  or  to  any  one  else.  For  that 
reason  the  ample  letters  and  diaries  which  cover 
these  years  need  not  detain  us  long.  There  is 
in  them  little  selection,  little  art — too  much 
professor  and  too  little  dog. 

It  is,  of  course,  the  business  of  the  essayist 
to  select;  but  in  the  present  case  there  is  little 
to  choose.  He  tells  of  invitations  to  dinner, 
accepted,  evaded,  or  refused;  but  he  does  not 
always  tell  who  were  there,  what  he  thought  of 
them,  or  what  they  had  to  eat.  Dinner  at  the 
Adami's, — supper  at  Ruttan's, — a  night  with 
Owen, — tea  at  the  Reford's, — theatre  with  the 
Hickson's, — a  reception  at  the  Angus's, — or  a 
dance  at  the  Allan's, — these  events  would  all 
[124] 


Civil  U>ears 


be  quite  meaningless  without  an  exposition  of 
the  social  life  of  Montreal,  which  is  too  large  a 
matter  to  undertake,  alluring  as  the  task  would 
be.  Even  then,  one  would  be  giving  one's  own 
impressions  and  not  his. 

Wherever  he  lived  he  was  a  social  figure. 
When  he  sat  at  table  the  dinner  was  never  dull. 
The  entertainment  he  offered  was  not  missed 
by  the  dullest  intelligence.  His  contribution 
was  merely  "stories,"  and  these  stories  in  end- 
less succession  were  told  in  a  spirit  of  frank  fun. 
They  were  not  illustrative,  admonitory,  or  hor- 
tatory. They  were  just  amusing,  and  always 
fresh.  This  gift  he  acquired  from  his  mother, 
who  had  that  rare  charm  of  mimicry  without 
mockery,  and  caricature  without  malice.  In  all 
his  own  letters  there  is  not  an  unkind  comment 
or  tinge  of  ill-nature,  although  in  places,  espe- 
cially in  later  years,  there  is  bitter  indignation 
against  those  Canadian  patriots  who  were  pa- 
triots merely  for  their  bellies'  sake. 

Taken  together  his  letters  and  diaries  are  a 
revelation  of  the  heroic  struggle  by  which  a  man 
gains  a  footing  in  a  strange  place  in  that  most 
particular  of  all  professions,  a  struggle  compre- 
hended by  those  alone  who  have  made  the  trial 
of  it.  And  yet  the  method  is  simple.  It  is  all 
disclosed  in  his  words,  "  I  have  never  refused 
any  work  that  was  given  me  to  do."  These 
[125] 


TTbe  Ctvfl  J)ear0 

records  are  merely  a  chronicle  of  work.  Out- 
door clinics,  laboratory  tasks,  post-mortems, 
demonstrating,  teaching,  lecturing,  attendance 
upon  the  sick  in  wards  and  homes,  meetings, 
conventions,  papers,  addresses,  editing,  review- 
ing,— the  very  remembrance  of  such  a  career 
is  enough  to  appall  the  stoutest  heart. 

But  John  McCrae  was  never  appalled.  He 
went  about  his  work  gaily,  never  busy,  never 
idle.  Each  minute  was  pressed  into  the  service, 
and  every  hour  was  made  to  count.  In  the 
first  eight  months  of  practice  he  claims  to  have 
made  ninety  dollars.  It  is  many  years  before 
we  hear  him  complain  of  the  drudgery  of  send- 
ing out  accounts,  and  sighing  for  the  services  of 
a  bookkeeper.  This  is  the  only  complaint  that 
appears  in  his  letters. 

There  were  at  the  time  in  Montreal  two  rival 
schools,  and  are  yet  two  rival  hospitals.  But 
John  McCrae  was  of  no  party.  He  was  the 
friend  of  all  men,  and  the  confidant  of  many. 
He  sought  nothing  for  himself  and  by  seeking 
not  he  found  what  he  most  desired.  His  mind 
was  single  and  his  intention  pure;  his  acts  un- 
sullied by  selfish  thought;  his  aim  was  true 
because  it  was  steady  and  high.  His  aid  was 
never  sought  for  any  cause  that  was  unworthy, 
and  those  humorous  eyes  could  see  through  the 
bones  to  the  marrow  of  a  scheme.  In  spite  of 
[126! 


TTbe  Civil  JJ)ears 

his  singular  innocence,  or  rather  by  reason  of 
it,  he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  be  imposed 
upon. 

In  all  this  devastating  labour  he  never  neg- 
lected the  assembling  of  himself  together  with 
those  who  write  and  those  who  paint  Indeed, 
he  had  himself  some  small  skill  in  line  and  col- 
our. His  hands  were  the  hands  of  an  artist — too 
fine  and  small  for  a  body  that  weighted  180 
pounds,  and  measured  more  than  five  feet  eleven 
inches  in  height.  There  was  in  Montreal  an 
institution  known  as  "The  Pen  and  Pencil 
Club."  No  one  now  living  remembers  a  time 
when  it  did  not  exist.  It  was  a  peculiar  club. 
It  contained  no  member  who  should  not  be  in 
it;  and  no  one  was  left  out  who  should  be  in. 
The  number  was  about  a  dozen.  For  twenty 
years  the  club  met  in  Dyonnet's  studio,  and 
afterwards,  as  the  result  of  some  convulsion, 
in  K.  R.  Macpherson's.  A  ceremonial  supper 
was  eaten  once  a  year,  at  which  one  dressed  the 
salad,  one  made  the  coffee,  and  Harris  sang  a 
song.  Here  all  pictures  were  first  shown,  and 
writings  read — if  they  were  not  too  long.  If 
they  were,  there  was  in  an  adjoining  room  a  tin 
chest,  which  in  these  austere  days  one  remembers 
with  refreshment.  When  John  McCrae  was 
offered  membership  he  "grabbed  at  it,"  and 
the  place  was  a  home  for  the  spirit  wearied  by 
[127] 


Ube 


the  week's  work.  There  Brymner  and  the  other 
artists  would  discourse  upon  writings,  and  Bur- 
gess and  the  other  writers  would  discourse  upon 
pictures. 

It  is  only  with  the  greatest  of  resolution, 
fortified  by  lack  of  time  and  space,  that  I  have 
kept  myself  to  the  main  lines  of  his  career,  and 
refrained  from  following  him  into  by-paths 
and  secret,  pleasant  places;  but  I  shall  not  be 
denied  just  one  indulgence.  In  the  great  days 
when  Lord  Grey  was  Governor-General  he 
formed  a  party  to  visit  Prince  Edward  Island. 
The  route  was  a  circuitous  one.  It  began  at 
Ottawa;  it  extended  to  Winnipeg,  down  the 
Nelson  River  to  York  Factory,  across  Hudson 
Bay,  down  the  Strait,  by  Belle  Isle  and  New- 
foundland, and  across  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence 
to  a  place  called  Orwell.  Lord  Grey  in  the 
matter  of  company  had  the  reputation  of  do- 
ing himself  well.  John  McCrae  was  of  the 
party.  It  also  included  John  Macnaughton,  L.  S. 
Amery,  Lord  Percy,  Lord  Lanesborough,  and 
one  or  two  others.  The  ship  had  called  at  North 
Sydney  where  Lady  Grey  and  the  Lady  Evelyn 
joined. 

Through  the  place  in  a  deep  ravine  runs  an 
innocent  stream  which  broadens  out  into  still 
pools,  dark  under  the  alders.  There  was  a  rod 
—  a  very  beautiful  rod  in  two  pieces.  It  excited 

[I28[ 


TTbc  Ctvfl  H?ears 

his  suspicion.  It  was  put  into  his  hand,  the 
first  stranger  hand  that  ever  held  it;  and  the 
first  cast  showed  that  it  was  a  worthy  hand. 
The  sea-trout  were  running  that  afternoon. 
Thirty  years  before,  in  that  memorable  visit 
to  Scotland,  he  had  been  taken  aside  by  "an 
old  friend  of  his  grandfather's."  It  was  there 
he  learned  "  to  love  the  trooties."  The  love  and 
the  art  never  left  him.  It  was  at  this  same 
Orwell  his  brother  first  heard  the  world  called 
to  arms  on  that  early  August  morning  in  1914. 

In  those  civil  years  there  were,  of  course, 
diversions:  visits  to  the  United  States  and 
meetings  with  notable  men — Welch,  Futcher, 
Hurd,  White,  Howard,  Barker:  voyages  to 
Europe  with  a  detailed  itinerary  upon  the  re- 
cord; walks  and  rides  upon  the  mountain; 
excursion  in  winter  to  the  woods,  and  in  summer 
to  the  lakes;  and  one  visit  to  the  Packards  in 
Maine,  with  the  sea  enthusiastically  described. 
Upon  those  woodland  excursions  and  upon 
many  other  adventures  his  companion  is  often 
referred  to  as  "Billy  T.,"  who  can  be  no  other 
than  Lieut. -Col.  W.  G.  Turner,  "M.C." 

Much  is  left  out  of  the  diary  that  we  would 
wish  to  have  recorded.  There  is  tantalizing 
mention  of  "conversations"  with  Shepherd — 
with  Roddick — with  Chipman — with  Armstrong 
— with  Gardner — with  Martin — with  Moyse. 
9  1 129  ] 


H>ea&  in  IMs  prime 

Occasionally  there  is  a  note  of  description: 
"James  Mavor  is  a  kindly  genius  with  much 
knowledge";  "Tait  McKenzie  presided  ideally" 
at  a  Shakespeare  dinner;  "Stephen  Leacock 
does  not  keep  all  the  good  things  for  his  pub- 
lisher." Those  who  know  the  life  in  Montreal 
may  well  for  themselves  supply  the  details. 

IX 

John  McCrae  left  the  front  after  the  second 
battle  of  Ypres,  and  never  returned.  On  June 
ist,  191 5,  he  was  posted  to  No.  3  General  Hospital 
at  Boulogne,  a  most  efficient  unit  organized  by 
McGill  University  and  commanded  by  that 
fine  soldier  Colonel  H.  S.  Birkett,  C.B.  He 
was  placed  in  charge  of  medicine,  with  the  rank 
of  Lieut.-Colonel  as  from  April  lyth,  1915,  and 
there  he  remained  until  his  death. 

At  first  he  did  not  relish  the  change.  His 
heart  was  with  the  guns.  He  had  transferred 
from  the  artillery  to  the  medical  service  as  re- 
cently as  the  previous  autumn,  and  embarked 
a  few  days  afterwards  at  Quebec,  on  the  29th 
of  September,  arriving  at  Davenport,  October 
20th,  1914.  Although  he  was  attached  as  Medical 
Officer  to  the  ist  Brigade  of  Artillery,  he  could 
not  forget  that  he  was  no  longer  a  gunner,  and 
in  those  tumultuous  days  he  was  often  to  be 
found  in  the  observation  post  rather  than  in 
[130] 


2>ea&  in  Ibis  iprime 

his  dressing  station.  He  had  inherited  some- 
thing of  the  old  army  superciliousness  towards 
a  "non-combatant"  service,  being  unaware 
that  in  this  war  the  battle  casualties  in  the 
medical  corps  were  to  be  higher  than  in  any  other 
arm  of  the  service.  From  South  Africa  he 
wrote  exactly  fifteen  years  before:  "I  am  glad 
that  I  am  not  'a  medical'  out  here.  No  '  R.A. 
M.C.'  or  any  other  'M.C.'  for  me.  There  is  a 
big  breach,  and  the  medicals  are  on  the  far  side 
of  it."  On  August  yth,  1915,  he  writes  from  his 
hospital  post,  "  I  expect  to  wish  often  that  I 
had  stuck  by  the  artillery."  But  he  had  no 
choice. 

Of  this  period  of  his  service  there  is  little 
written  record.  He  merely  did  his  work,  and 
did  it  well,  as  he  always  did  what  his  mind  found 
to  do.  His  health  was  failing.  He  suffered 
from  the  cold.  A  year  before  his  death  he 
writes  on  January  25th,  1917: 

The  cruel  cold  is  still  holding.  Everyone  is  suffering, 
and  the  men  in  the  wards  in  bed  cannot  keep  warm.  I 
know  of  nothing  so  absolutely  pitiless  as  weather.  Let 
one  wish ;  let  one  pray ;  do  what  one  will ;  still  the  same  clear 
sky  and  no  sign, — you  know  the  cold  brand  of  sunshine. 
For  my  own  part  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  been  more 
uncomfortable.  Everything  is  so  cold  that  it  hurts  to  pick 
it  up.  To  go  to  bed  is  a  nightmare  and  to  get  up  a  worse 
one.  I  have  heard  of  cold  weather  in  Europe,  and  how 
the  poor  suffer, — now  I  know! 

[131] 


2>ea&  in  Iris  prime 

All  his  life  he  was  a  victim  of  asthma.  The 
first  definite  attack  was  in  the  autumn  of  1894, 
and  the  following  winter  it  recurred  with  per- 
sistence. For  the  next  five  years  his  letters 
abound  in  references  to  the  malady.  After 
coming  to  Montreal  it  subsided;  but  he  always 
felt  that  the  enemy  was  around  the  corner.  He 
had  frequent  periods  in  bed;  but  he  enjoyed  the 
relief  from  work  and  the  occasion  they  afforded 
for  rest  and  reading. 

In  January,  1918,  minutes  begin  to  appear 
upon  his  official  file  which  were  of  great  interest 
to  him,  and  to  us.  Colonel  Birkett  had  relin- 
quished command  of  the  unit  to  resume  his 
duties  as  Dean  of  the  Medical  Faculty  of  McGill 
University.  He  was  succeeded  by  that  veteran 
soldier,  Colonel  J.  M.  Elder,  C.M.G.  At  the 
same  time  the  command  of  No.  i  General  Hospi- 
tal fell  vacant.  Lieut.-Colonel  McCrae  was 
required  for  that  post;  but  a  higher  honour  was 
in  store,  namely  the  place  of  Consultant  to  the 
British  Armies  in  the  Field.  All  these  events, 
and  the  final  great  event,  are  best  recorded  in 
the  austere  official  correspondence  which  I  am 
permitted  to  extract  from  the  files: 

From  D.M.S.  Canadian  Contingents.  (Major-General 
C.  L.  Foster,  C.B.).  To  O.C.  No.  3  General  Hospital, 
B.E.F.,  I3th  December,  1917:  There  is  a  probability  of 
the  command  of  No.  i  General  Hospital  becoming  vacant. 


H)ea&  in  1?te  prime 

It  is  requested,  please,  that  you  obtain  from  Lieut.-Col. 
J.  McCrae  his  wishes  in  the  matter.  If  he  is  available, 
and  willing  to  take  over  this  command,  it  is  proposed  to 
offer  it  to  him. 

O.C.  No.  3  General  Hospital,  B.E.F.,  To  D.M.S. 
Canadian  Contingents,  28th  December,  1917:  Lieut.  - 
Colonel  McCrae  desires  me  to  say  that,  while  he  naturally 
looks  forward  to  succeeding  to  the  command  of  this 
unit,  he  is  quite  willing  to  comply  with  your  desire,  and 
will  take  command  of  No.  i  General  Hospital  at  any  time 
you  may  wish. 

D.G.M.S.  British  Armies  in  Prance.  To  D.M.S.  Cana- 
dian Contingents,  January  2nd,  1918:  It  is  proposed  to 
appoint  Lieut. -Colonel  J.  McCrae,  now  serving  with  No. 
3  Canadian  General  Hospital,  Consulting  Physician  to 
the  British  Armies  in  France.  Notification  of  this  ap- 
pointment, when  made,  will  be  sent  to  you  in  due  course. 

D.M.S.  Canadian  Contingents.  To  O.C.  No.  3  General 
Hospital,  B.E.F.,  January  5th,  1918:  Since  receiving  your 
letter  I  have  information  from  G.H.Q.  that  they  will 
appoint  a  Consultant  Physician  to  the  British  Armies  in 
the  Field,  and  have  indicated  their  desire  for  Lieut.- 
Colonel  McCrae  for  this  duty.  This  is  a  much  higher 
honour  than  commanding  a  General  Hospital,  and  I  hope 
he  will  take  the  post,  as  this  is  a  position  I  have  long 
wished  should  be  filled  by  a  C.A.M.C.  officer. 

D.M.S.  Canadian  Contingents.  To  D.G.M.S.,  G.H.Q^ 
2nd  Echelon,  January  isth,  1918:  I  fully  concur  in  this 
appointment,  and  consider  this  officer  will  prove  his  ability 
as  an  able  Consulting  Physician. 

Telegram:  D.G.M.S.,  G.H.Q.,  2nd  Echelon.  To  D.M. 
S.Canadian  Contingents,  January  i8th,i9i8:  Any  objection 

[133] 


2>ea&  tn  1bts  prime 

to  Lieut.-Col.  J.  McCrae  being  appointed  Consulting 
Physician  to  British  Armies  in  France.  If  appointed, 
temporary  rank  of  Colonel  recommended. 

Telegram:  O.C.  No.  3  General  Hospital,  B.E.F.  To 
D.M.S.  Canadian  Contingents,  January  27th,  1918:  Lieut.- 
Col.  John  McCrae  seriously  ill  with  pneumonia  at  No.  14 
General  Hospital. 

Telegram:  O.C.  No.  14  General  Hospital.  To  O.C. 
No.  3  General  Hospital,  B.E.F.,  January  28th,  1918:  Lieut.- 
Col.  John  McCrae  died  this  morning. 

This  was  the  end.  For  him  the  war  was  fin- 
ished and  all  the  glory  of  the  world  had  passed. 

Henceforth  we  are  concerned  not  with  the 
letters  he  wrote,  but  with  the  letters  which  were 
written  about  him.  They  came  from  all  quar- 
ters, literally  in  hundreds,  all  inspired  by  pure 
sympathy,  but  some  tinged  with  a  curiosity 
which  it  is  hoped  this  writing  will  do  something 
to  assuage. 

Let  us  first  confine  ourselves  to  the  facts. 
They  are  all  contained  in  a  letter  which  Colonel 
Elder  wrote  to  myself  in  common  with  other 
friends.  On  Wednesday,  January  23rd,  he  was 
as  usual  in  the  morning;  but  in  the  afternoon 
Colonel  Elder  found  him  asleep  in  his  chair  in 
the  mess  room.  "  I  have  a  slight  headache," 
he  said.  He  went  to  his  quarters.  In  the 
evening  he  was  worse,  but  had  no  increase  of 
temperature,  no  acceleration  of  pulse  or  respira- 
[i34l 


Dea&  in  Ibis  prime 

tion.  At  this  moment  the  order  arrived  for 
him  to  proceed  forthwith  as  Consulting  Physi- 
cian of  the  First  Army.  Colonel  Elder  writes, 
"  I  read  the  order  to  him,  and  told  him  I  should 
announce  the  contents  at  mess.  He  was  very 
much  pleased  over  the  appointment.  We  dis- 
cussed the  matter  at  some  length,  and  I  took 
his  advice  upon  measures  for  carrying  on  the 
medical  work  of  the  unit." 

Next  morning  he  was  sleeping  soundly,  but 
later  on  he  professed  to  be  much  better.  He  had 
no  fever,  no  cough,  no  pain.  In  the  afternoon 
he  sent  for  Colonel  Elder,  and  announced  that 
he  had  pneumonia.  There  were  no  signs  in  the 
chest;  but  the  microscope  revealed  certain  or- 
ganisms which  rather  confirmed  the  diagnosis. 
The  temperature  was  rising.  Sir  Bertrand 
Dawson  was  sent  for.  He  came  by  evening 
from  Wimereux,  but  he  could  discover  no  physi- 
cal signs.  In  the  night  the  temperature  con- 
tinued to  rise,  and  he  complained  of  headache. 
He  was  restless  until  the  morning,  "when  he 
fell  into  a  calm,  untroubled  sleep." 

Next  morning,  being  Friday,  he  was  removed 
by  ambulance  to  No.  14  General  Hospital  at 
Wimereux.  In  the  evening  news  came  that  he 
was  better;  by  the  morning  the  report  was 
good,  a  lowered  temperature  and  normal  pulse. 
In  the  afternoon  the  condition  grew  worse; 

[  135] 


Beat)  in  f)is  prime 

there  were  signs  of  cerebral  irritation  with  a 
rapid,  irregular  pulse;  his  mind  was  quickly 
clouded.  Early  on  Sunday  morning  the  tem- 
perature dropped,  and  the  heart  grew  weak; 
there  was  an  intense  sleepiness.  During  the 
day  the  sleep  increased  to  coma,  and  all  knew 
the  end  was  near. 

His  friends  had  gathered.  The  choicest  of 
the  profession  was  there,  but  they  were  help- 
less. He  remained  unconscious,  and  died  at 
half  past  one  on  Monday  morning.  The  cause 
of  death  was  double  pneumonia  with  massive 
cerebral  infection.  Colonel  Elder's  letter  con- 
cludes: "We  packed  his  effects  in  a  large  box, 
everything  that  we  thought  should  go  to  his 
people,  and  Gow  took  it  with  him  to  England 
to-day."  Walter  Gow  was  his  cousin,  a  son 
of  that  Gow  who  sailed  with  the  Eckfords  from 
Glasgow  in  the  Clutba.  At  the  time  he  was 
Deputy  Minister  in  London  of  the  Overseas 
Military  Forces  of  Canada.  He  had  been  sent 
for  but  arrived  too  late; — all  was  so  sudden. 

The  funeral  was  held  on  Tuesday  afternoon, 
January  29th,  at  the  cemetery  in  Wimereux. 
The  burial  was  made  with  full  military  pomp. 
From  the  Canadian  Corps  came  Lieut.-General 
Sir  Arthur  Currie,  the  General  Officer  Command- 
ing; Major-General  E.  W.  B.  Morrison,  and 
Brigadier-General  W.  O.  H.  Dodds,  of  the  Artil- 
[136] 


2>ea&  in  t>fs  prime 

lery.  Sir  A.  T.  Sloggett,  the  Director-General 
of  Medical  Services,  and  his  Staff  were  waiting 
at  the  grave.  All  Commanding  Officers  at  the 
Base,  and  all  Deputy  Directors  were  there. 
There  was  also  a  deputation  from  the  Harvard 
Unit  headed  by  Harvey  Gushing. 

Bonfire  went  first,  led  by  two  grooms,  and 
decked  in  the  regulation  white  ribbon,  not  the 
least  pathetic  figure  in  the  sad  procession.  A 
hundred  nursing  Sisters  in  caps  and  veils  stood 
in  line,  and  then  proceeded  in  ambulances 
to  the  cemetery,  where  they  lined  up  again. 
Seventy-five  of  the  personnel  from  the  Hospital 
acted  as  escort,  and  six  Sergeants  bore  the  coffin 
from  the  gates  to  the  grave.  The  firing  party 
was  in  its  place.  Then  followed  the  chief 
mourners,  Colonel  Elder  and  Sir  Bertrand  Daw- 
son;  and  in  their  due  order,  the  rank  and  file 
of  No.  3  with  their  officers;  the  rank  and  file  of 
No.  14  with  their  officers;  all  officers  from  the 
Base,  with  Major-General  Wilberforce  and  the 
Deputy  Directors  to  complete. 

It  was  a  springtime  day,  and  those  who  have 
passed  all  those  winters  in  France  and  in  Flan- 
ders will  know  how  lovely  the  springtime  may 
be.  So  we  may  leave  him,  "on  this  sunny  slope, 
facing  the  sunset  and  the  sea."  These  are  the 
words  used  by  one  of  the  nurses  in  a  letter  to  a 
friend, — those  women  from  whom  no  heart  is  hid. 
[i37l 


Deafc  in  l)is  prime 

She  also  adds:  "The  nurses  lamented  that  he 
became  unconscious  so  quickly  they  could  not 
tell  him  how  much  they  cared.  To  the  funeral 
all  came  as  we  did,  because  we  loved  him  so." 

At  first  there  was  the  hush  of  grief  and  the 
silence  of  sudden  shock.  Then  there  was  an 
outbreak  of  eulogy,  of  appraisement,  and  sorrow. 
No  attempt  shall  be  made  to  reproduce  it  here; 
but  one  or  two  voices  may  be  recorded  in  so 
far  as  in  disjointed  words  they  speak  for  all. 
Stephen  Leacock,  for  those  who  write,  tells  of 
his  high  vitality  and  splendid  vigour — his  career 
of  honour  and  marked  distinction — his  life  filled 
with  honourable  endeavour  and  instinct  with 
the  sense  of  duty — a  sane  and  equable  tempera- 
ment— whatever  he  did,  filled  with  sure  purpose 
and  swift  conviction. 

Dr.  A.  D.  Blackader,  acting  Dean  of  the 
Medical  Faculty  of  McGill  University,  himself 
speaking  from  out  of  the  shadow,  thus  appraises 
his  worth:  "As  a  teacher,  trusted  and  beloved; 
as  a  colleague,  sincere  and  cordial;  as  a  physi- 
cian, faithful,  cheerful,  kind.  An  unkind  word 
he  never  uttered."  Oskar  Klotz,  himself  a 
student,  testifies  that  the  relationship  was  es- 
sentially one  of  master  and  pupil.  From  the 
head  of  his  first  department  at  McGill,  Profes- 
sor, now  Colonel,  Adami,  comes  the  weighty 
phrase,  that  he  was  sound  in  diagnosis;  as  a 
[138! 


2>ea&  in  fcts  prime 

teacher  inspiring;  that  few  could   rise   to   his 
high  level  of  service. 

There  is  yet  a  deeper  aspect  of  this  character 
with  which  we  are  concerned;  but  I  shrink  from 
making  the  exposition,  fearing  lest  with  my 
heavy  literary  tread  I  might  destroy  more  than 
I  should  discover.  When  one  stands  by  the 
holy  place  wherein  dwells  a  dead  friend's  soul 
— the  word  would  slip  out  at  last — it  becomes 
him  to  take  off  the  shoes  from  off  his  feet.  But 
fortunately  the  dilemma  does  not  arise.  The 
task  has  already  been  performed  by  one  who  by 
God  has  been  endowed  with  the  religious  sense, 
and  by  nature  enriched  with  the  gift  of  expres- 
sion; one  who  in  his  high  calling  has  long  been 
acquainted  with  the  grief  of  others,  and  is  now 
himself  a  man  of  sorrow,  having  seen  with 
understanding  eyes, 

These  great  days  range  like  tides, 
And  leave  our  dead  on  every  shore. 

On  February  i4th,  1918,  a  Memorial  Ser- 
vice was  held  in  the  Royal  Victoria  College. 
Principal  Sir  William  Peterson  presided.  John 
Macnaughton  gave  the  address  in  his  own  lovely 
and  inimitable  words,  to  commemorate  one  whom 
he  lamented,  "so  young  and  strong,  in  the 
prime  of  life,  in  the  full  ripeness  of  his  fine 
powers,  his  season  of  fruit  and  flower  bearing. 
[139] 


Dea^  in  t>is  prime 

He  never  lost  the  simple  faith  of  his  childhood. 
He  was  so  sure  about  the  main  things,  the  vast 
things,  the  indispensable  things,  of  which  all 
formulated  faiths  are  but  a  more  or  less  stam- 
mering expression,  that  he  was  content  with  the 
rough  embodiment  in  which  his  ancestors  had 
laboured  to  bring  those  great  realities  to  bear 
as  beneficent  and  propulsive  forces  upon  their 
own  and  their  children's  minds  and  consciences. 
His  instinctive  faith  sufficed  him." 

To  his  own  students  John  McCrae  once 
quoted  the  legend  from  a  picture,  to  him  "the 
most  suggestive  picture  in  the  world":  What  I 
spent  I  had:  what  I  saved  I  lost:  what  I  gave 
I  have; — and  he  added:  "It  will  be  in  your 
power  every  day  to  store  up  for  yourselves 
treasures  that  will  come  back  to  you  in  the 
consciousness  of  duty  well  done,  of  kind  acts 
performed,  things  that  having  given  away  freely 
you  yet  possess.  It  has  often  seemed  to  me 
that  when  in  the  Judgement  those  surprised 
faces  look  up  and  say,  Lord,  when  saw  we  Thee 
anhungered  and  fed  Thee;  or  thirsty  and  gave 
Thee  drink;  a  stranger,  and  took  Thee  in; 
naked  and  clothed  Thee;  and  there  meets  them 
that  warrant-royal  of  all  charity,  Inasmuch  as 
ye  did  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye  have 
done  it  unto  Me,  there  will  be  amongst  those 
awed  ones  many  a  practitioner  of  medicine." 
[  140] 


JDeafc  in  IMs  prime 

And  finally  I  shall  conclude  this  task  to  which 
I  have  set  a  worn  but  willing  hand,  by  using 
again  the  words  which  once  I  used  before: 
Beyond  all  consideration  of  his  intellectual 
attainments  John  McCrae  was  the  well  beloved 
of  his  friends.  He  will  be  missed  in  his  place; 
and  wherever  his  companions  assemble  there 
will  be  for  them  a  new  poignancy  in  the  Miltonic 
phrase, 

But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return! 

LONDON, 

nth  November,  1918. 


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